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THACKERAY’S NOVELS 


ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY EDITION. 


THE COMPLETEST AND CHEAPEST PUBLISHED. 


Vanity Fair .... 

. With 39 Illustrations. 1 vol. 

Pendennis 

“ 46 

it 2 

The Newcomes . 

. “ 45 

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The Virginians .... 

46 

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The Adventures of Philip . 
Henry Esmond | 

. 20 

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Lovel the Widower) 

« 14 

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Bound in morocco cloth, with gilt back and sides, uniform with Dickens, 
Scott, and George Eliot. Price, per vol., S 2.00. 


JAIVEZjS R. OSGtOOD 8 c CO., Publishers. 



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Henry Esmond finds Frie^tds, 









ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY EDITION. 


HENEY ESMOND 


AND 

LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


BY 


WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 

« 4 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEORGE DU MAURIER AND THE AUTHOR. 



BOSTON: 

JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

Latb Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 

1874. 


University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co.) 

Cambridge. , 




CONTENTS 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 

BOOK I. 

THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND, UP TO THE TIME OF HIS LEAVING 


TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 

Chap. Page 

I. An Account op the Family op Esmond op Castlewood 

‘ Hall 11 

II. Relates how Francis, Fourth Viscount, arrives at 

Castlewood 14 


III. Whither in the Time op Thomas, Third Viscount, I 

HAD preceded HIM AS PaGE TO ISABELLA . . .19 

IV. I AM PLACED UNDER A PoPISH PrIEST AND BRED TO THAT 

Religion. — Viscountess Castlewood ... 25 

V. My Superiors are engaged in Plots por the Restora- 
tion OP King James II. 29 

VI. The Issue of the Plots. — The Death of Thomas, 
Third Viscount op Castlewood ; and the Impris- 
onment OP HIS Viscountess 36 

VII. I AM LEFT AT CaSTLEWOOD AN ORPHAN, AND FIND MoST 

Kind Protectors there 45 

VIII. After Good Fortune comes Evil 50 

IX. I HAVE THE Small-Pox, and prepare to leave Castle- 
wood .55 

X. I GO TO Cambridge, and do but little Good there 67 

XI. I COME Home for a Holiday to Cast leavood, and pind 

A Skeleton in the House 71 

XIT. My Lord Mohun co.aies among us for no Good . . 79 

XIII. My Lord leaves us and his Evil behind him . , 85 

XIV. We ride after him to London . . . . ■ . 93 

. BOOK II. 

CONTAINS MR. ESMOND’S MILITARY LIFE, AND OTHER MATTERS APPER- 
TAINING TO THE ESMOND FAMILY. 

1. I AM IN Prison, and visited, but not consoled there 102 

n. I COAIE TO THE EnD OF MY CAPTIVITY, BUT NOT OP MY' 

Trouble .108 

III. I TAKE THE QuEEn’s PaY IN QuIN’S ReGIMENT . .114 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


IV. Kecapitulations 119 

V. I GO ON THE Vigo-Bay Expedition, taste Salt Water, 

AND SMELL PoWDER 123 

VI. The 29th December 130 

VIL. I AM MADE WELCOME AT WaLCOTE 134 

VIII. Family Talk 140 

IX. I MAKE THE CAMPAIGN OF 1704 144 

X. An old Story about a Fool and a Woman . , 150 

XI. The famous Mr. Joseph Addison 156 

XII. I GET A Company in the Campaign of 1706 . . 162 

XIII. I MEET AN old ACQUAINTANCE IN FlANDERS, AND FIND 

MY Mother’s Grave and my own Cradle there . 165 

XIV. The Campaign of 1707, 1708 173 

XV. General Webb wins the Battle of Wynendael . .178 


BOOK III. 

CONTAINING THE END OF MR. ESMOND’S ADVENTURES IN ENGLAND. 

I. I COME TO AN End of my Battles and Bruises . . ,194 

II. I GO Hojie, and harp on the Old String . . . 202 

III. A Paper out of the Spectator 211 

IV. Beatrix’s new Suitor 222 

V. Mohun appears for the Last Time in this History 229 

VI. Poor Beatrix 237 

VII. I VISIT Castlewood once more 241 

VIII. I TRAVEL TO FrANCE, AND BRING HOME A PORTRAIT OF 

Rigaud 247 

IX. The Original of the Portrait comes to England . 253 

X. We entertain a very distinguished Guest at Ken- 
sington 202 

XT. Our Guest quits us as not being Hospitable enough 270 

XII. A great Scheme, and who balked it . . . .276 
XIII. August 1st, 1714 . . 280^ 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 

I. The Bachelor of Beak Street 291 

II. In which Miss Prior is kept at the Door . . 304 

III. In which I PLAY THE Spy . . . , ' , . .316 

IV. A Black Sheep . . . 328 

V. In avhich I am Stung by a Serpent 343 

VI. Cecilia’s Successor 354 


LIST OF ILLUSTEATIONS, 


HENRY ESMOND. 

Harry Esmond finds Friends Frontispiece. 

Parting Page 66 

The Duel in Leicester Field 100 

Beatrix 135 

The Chevalier de St. George . . . . , , . . .201 

Eeconciliation 228 

Monsieur Baptiste 257 

The Last of Beatrix 285 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


I AM REFERRED TO CeCILIA 304 

Bessy’s Spectacles 315 

“Where the Sugar goes” 321 

Bessy’s Reflections 342 

Bedford to the Rescue 344 

Lovel’s Mothers 362 




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HISTOHY OF HENRY ESMOND, Esq 


A COLONEL IN THE SEE VICE OF HER MAJESTY 
QUEEN ANNE. 

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. 

EDITED BY W. M. THACKERAY. 

Servetur ad imum 

Qualls ab incepto processerit, et sibi constat. 


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TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE 


WILLIAM BINGHAM, LORD ASHBURTON. 


My dear Lord, — « 

The writer of a book which copies the manners and language of Queen 
Anne’s time must not omit the Dedication to the Patron ; and I ask leave 
to inscribe this volume to your Lordship, for the sake of the great kindness 
and friendship which I owe to you and yours. 

My volume will reach you when the Author is on his voyage to a country 
where your name is as well known as here. Wherever I am, I shall grate- 
fully regard you ; and shall not be the less welcomed in America because 
I am 

Your obliged friend and servant, 

W. M. THACKERAY. 

London, October 18, 1852. 



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PREFACE. 


THE ESMONDS OF VIRGINIA. 

The estate of Castlewood, in Virginia, which was given to our ancestors 
bv King Charles the First, as some return for the sacrifices made in his 
Majesty’s cause by the Esmond family, lies in Westmoreland County, between 
the rivers Potomac and Rappahannock, and was once as great as an English 
Principality, though in the early times its revenues were but small. Indeed, 
for near eighty years after our forefathers possessed them, our plantations 
were in the hands of factors, who enriched themselves one after another, 
though a few scores of hogsheads of tobacco were all the produce that, for 
long after the Restoration, our family received from their Virginian estates. 

My dear and honored father. Colonel Henry Esmond, whose history, writ- 
ten by himself, is contained in the accompanying volume, came to Virginia 
in the year 1718, built his house of Castlewood, and here permanently set- 
tled. After a long stormy life in England, he passed the remainder of his 
many years in peace and honor in this country ; how beloved and respected 
by all his fellow-citizens, how inexpressibly dear to his family, I need not 
say. His whole life was a benefit to all who were connected with him. He 
gave the best example, the best advice, the most bounteous hospitality to his 
friends ; the tenderest care to his dependants ; and bestowed on those of his 
immediate family such a blessing of fatherly love and protection as can never 
be thought of, by us, at least, without veneration and thankfulness ; and my 
sons’ children, whether established here in our Republic, or at home in the 
always beloved mother country, from which our late quarrel hath separated 
us, may surely be proud to be descended from one who in all ways was so 
truly noble. 

My dear mother died in 1736, soon after our return from England, whither 
my parents took me for my education ; and where I made the acquaintance 
of Mr. Warrington, whom my children never saw. When it pleased Heaven, 
in the bloom of his youth, and after but a few months of a most happy union, 
to remove him from me, I owed my recovery from the grief which that ca- 
lamity caused me, mainly to my dearest fathers tenderness, and then to the 
blessing vouchsafed to me in the birth of my two beloved boys. I know the 
fatal differences which separated them in politics never disunited their hearts ; 
and as I can love them both, whether wearing the King’s colors or the Re- 
public’s, I am sure that they love me and one another, and him above all, 
my father and theirs, the dearest friend of their childhood, the noble gentle- 
man Avho bred them from their infancy in the practice and knowledge of 
Truth, and Love and Honor. 

My children will never forget the appearance and figure of their revered 
grandfather ; and I wish I possessed the art of drawing (which my papa had 
in perfection), so that I could leave to our descendants a portrait of one who 


6 


PKEFACE. 


was so good and so respected. My father was of a dark complexion, with 
a very great forehead and dark hazel eyes, overhung by eyebrows which re- 
mained black long after his hair was white. His nose was aquiline, his 
smile extraordinary sweet. How well I remember it, and how little any de- 
scription I can write can recall his image ! He was of rather low stature, not 
being above five feet seven inches in height ; he used to laugh at my sons, 
whom he called his crutches, and say they were grown too tall for him to 
lean upon. But small as he was, he had a perfect grace and majesty of de- 
portment, such as 1 have never seen in this country, except perhaps in our 
friend Mr. Washington, and commanded respect wherever he appeared. 

In all bodily exercises he excelled, and showed an extraordinary quickness 
and agility. Of fencing he was especially fond, and made my two boys pro- 
ficient in that art ; so much so, that when the Erench came to this country 
with Monsieur llochambeau, not one of his officers was superior to my Hen- 
r^, and he was not the equal of my poor George, who had taken the King’s 
side in our lamentable but glorious war of independence. 

Neither my father nor my mother ever wore powder in their hair ; both 
their heads were as white as silver, as I can remember them. My dear 
mother possessed to the last an extraordinary brightness and freshness of 
complexion ; nor would people believe that she did not wear rouge. At sixty 
years of age she still looked young, and was quite agile. It was not until 
after that dreadful siege of our house by the Indians, which left me a widow 
ere I was a mother, that my dear mother’s health broke. She never recov- 
ered her terror and anxiety of those days, Avhich ended so fatally for me, then 
a bride scarce six months married, and died in my father’s arms ere my own 
year of widowhood was over. 

From that day, until the last of his dear and honored life, it was my de- 
light and consolation to remain with him as his comforter and companion ; 
and from those little notes which my mother hath made here and there in the 
volume in which my father describes his adventures in Europe, I can Avell 
understand the extreme devotion with which she regarded him, — a devotion 
so passionate and exclusive as to prevent her, I think, from loving any other 
person except with an inferior regard ; her Avhole thoughts being centred on 
this one object of affection and worship. I know that, before her, my dear 
father did not show the love which he had for his daughter ; and in her last 
and most sacred moments, this dear and tender parent owned to me her repent- 
ance that she had not loved me enough : her jealousy even that my father 
should give his affection to any but herself ; and in the most fond and beau- 
tiful Avords of affection and admonition, she bade me neA'cr to leaA’e him, and 
to supply the place Avhich she Avas quitting. With a clear conscience, and a 
heart inexpressibly thankful, I think I can say that I fulfilled those dying 
commands, and that until his last hour my dearest father never had to com- 
plain that his daughter’s love and fidelity failed him. 

And it is since I kneAv him entirely, — for during my mother’s life he never 
quite opened himself to me, — since I kneAv the value and splendor of that 
afi'ection Avhich he bestOAved upon me, that I have come to understand and 
pardon Avhat, I OAvn, used to anger me in my mother’s lifetime, her jealousy 
respecting her husband’s love. ’T Avas a gift so precious, that no Avonder 
she Avho had it Avas for keeping it all, and could part with none of it, even to 
her daughter. 

Though I never heard my father use a rough Avord, ’t Avas extraordinary 
with hoAv much aAve his people regarded him ; and the servants on our plan- 
tation, both those assigned from England and the purchased negroes, obeyed 
him with an eagerness such as the most severe taskmasters round about us 


PREFACE. 


7 


could never get from their people. He was never familiar, though perfectly 
simple and natural ; he was the same with the meanest man as with the 
greatest, and as courteous to a black slave-girl as to the Governor’s wife. 
No one ever thought of taking a liberty with him (except once a tipsy gentle- 
man from York, and I am bound to own that my papa never forgave him) : 
he set the humblest people at once on their ease with him, and brought down 
the most arrogant by a grave satiric way, which made persons exceedingly 
afraid of him. His courtesy was not put on like a Sunday suit, and laid by 
when the company went away; it was always the same; as he was always 
dressed the same, whether for a dinner by ourselves or for a great entertain- 
ment. They say he liked to be the first in his company ; but what company 
was there in which he would not be first ? When I went to Europe for my 
education, and we passed a winter at London with my half-brother, my Lord 
Castlewood and his second lady, I saw at her Majesty’s Court some of the 
most famous gentlemen of those days ; and I thought to myself none of these 
are better than my papa ; and the famous Lord Bolingbroke, who came to 
ns from Dawley, said as much, and that the men of that time were not like 
those of his youth : — “ Were your father. Madam,” he said, “ to go into the 
woods, the Indians would elect him Sachem ” ; and his Lordship was pleased 
to call me Pocahontas. 

I did not see our other relative. Bishop Tusher’s lady, of whom so much is 
said in my papa’s memoirs, — although my mamma went to visit her in the 
country. I have no pride (as I showed by complying with my mother’s re- 
quest, and marrying a gentleman who was but the younger son of a Suffolk 
Baronet), yet I own to a decent respect for my name, and wonder how 
one who ever bore it should change it for that of Mrs. Thomas Tusher. I 
pass over as odious and unworthy of credit those reports (which I heard in 
Europe, and was then too young to understand), how this person, having left 
her family and fled to Paris, out of jealousy of the Pretender betrayed his 
secrets to my Lord Stair, King George’s Ambassador, and nearly caused the 
Prince’s death there ; how she came to England and married this Mr. Tusher, 
and became a great favorite of King George the Second, by whom Mr. Tusher 
was made a Dean, and then a Bishop. I did not see the lady, who chose to 
remain at her palace all the time we were in London ; but after visiting her, 
my poor mamma said she had lost all her good looks, and warned me not 
to set too much store by any such gifts which nature had bestowed upon me. 
She grew exceedingly stout ; and I remember my brother’s wife. Lady Cas- 
tlewood, saying, — “No wonder she became a far^orite, for the King likes 
them old and ugly, as his father did before him.” On which papa said, — 
“ All women were alike ; that there was never one so beautiful as that one ; 
and that we could forgive her everything but her beauty.” And hereupon 
my mamma looked vexed, and my Lord Castlewood began to laugh ; and I, 
of course, being a young creature, could not understand what was the subject 
of their conversation. 

After the circumstances narrated in the third book of these Memoirs, my 
father and mother both went abroad, being advised by their friends to leave 
the country in consequence of the transactions which are recounted at the 
close of the volume of the Memoirs. But my brother, hearing how i\\(i future 
Bishop’s lady had quitted Castlewood and joined the Pretender at Paris, pur- 
sued him, and would have killed him. Prince as he was, had not the Prince 
managed to make his escape. On his expedition to Scotland directly after, 
Castlewood was so enraged against him that he asked leave to serve as a vol- 
unteer, and join the Duke of Argyle’s army in Scotland, which the Pre- 
tender never had the courage to face ; and thenceforth my Lord was quite 


8 


PREFACE. 


reconciled to the present reigning family, from whom he hath even received 
promotion. 

Mrs. Tusher was by this time as angry against the Pretender as any of her 
relations could be, and used to boast, as I have heard, that she not only 
brought back my Lord to the Church of England, but procured the English 
peerage for him, which the junior branch of our family at present enjoys. 
fShe was a great friend of Sir Robert Walpole, and would not rest until her 
husband slept at Lambeth, my papa used laughing to. say. However, the 
Bishop died of apoplexy suddenly, and his'-wife erected a great monument 
over him ; and the pair sleep under that stone, with a canopy of marble 
clouds and angels above them, — the first Mrs. Tusher lying sixty miles off 
at Castlewood. 

But my papa’s genius and education are both greater than any a woman 
can be expected to have, and his adventures in Europe far more exciting than 
his life in this country, which was passed in the tranquil offices of love and 
duty ; and I shall say no more by way of introduction to his Memoirs, nor 
keep my children from the perusal of a story which is much more interesting 
than that of their affectionate old mother, 

RACHEL ESMOND WARRINGTON. 

Castlewood, ■Virginia, 

November 3 , 1778 . 


HISTOEY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


BOOK I. 

THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND, UP TO THE TIME OF HIS LEAVING 
•TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 


T he actors in the old tragedies, as 
•we read, piped their iambics to a 
tune. Speaking from under a mask, 
and wearing stilts and a great head- 
dress. was thought the dignity of 
the Tragic Muse required these ap- 
purtenances, and that she was not to 
move except to a measure and ca- 
dence. So Queen Medea sIcyv her 
children to a slow music : and King 
Agamemnon perished in a dying fall 
(to use Mr. Dry den’s words) : the Cho- 
rus standing by in a set attitude, and 
rhythmically and decorously bewailing 
the fates of those great crowned per- 
sons. The Muse of History hath en- 
cumbered herself with ceremony as 
•well as her Sister of the Theatre. She 
too wears the mask and the cothurnus, 
and speaks to measure. She too, in 
our age, busies herself with the affairs 
only of kings ; waiting on them obse- 
quiously and stately, as if she were 
but a mistress of court ceremonies, 
and had nothing to do with the regis- 
tering of the affairs of the common 
people. I have seen in his very old 
age and decrepitude the old French 
King Louis the Fourteenth, the type 
and model of kinghood, — who never 
moved but to measure, who lived and 
died according to the laws of his Court- 
marshal, persisting in enacting through 
life the ])art of Hero ; and, divested of 
poetry, this was but a little wrinkled 
old man, pock-marked, and with a 
great periwig and red heels to make 
1 ♦ 


him look tall, — a hero for a book if 
you like, or for a brass statue or a 
painted ceiling, a god in a Koman 
shape, but what more than a man for 
Madame Main tenon, or the barber 
who shaved him, or Monsieur Fagon, 
his surgeon ? I wonder shall History 
ever pull off her periwig and cease to 
be court-ridden I Shall we see some- 
thing of France and England besides 
Versailles and Windsor? I saw 
Queen Anne at the latter place tear- 
ing down the' Park slopes, after her 
stag-hounds, and driving her one- 
horse chaise, — a hot, red-faced yvo- 
man, not in the least resembling that 
statue of her Yvhich turns its stone 
back upon St. Paul’s, and faces the 
coaches struggling up Ludgate Hill. 
She Yvas neither better bred nor Yviser 
than you and me, though Yve knelt to 
band her a letter or a Yvash-hand basin. 
Why shall History go on kneeling to 
the end of time? I am for having 
her rise up off her knees, and take a 
natural posture : not to be forever per- 
forming cringes and congees like a 
court-chamberlain, and shuffling back- 
Yvards out of doors in the presence of 
the sovereign. In a Yvord, I YYOuld 
have History familiar rather than he- 
roic : and think that Mr. Hogarth 
and Mr. Fielding Yvill gtY^e our chil- 
dren a much better idea of the man- 
ners of the present age in England, 
than the Court Gazette and thencYvs- 
papers Yvhich Yve get thence. 


10 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


There was a German officer of 
Webb’s, with whom we used to joke, 
and of whom a story (whereof I my- 
self was the author) was got to be be- 
lieved in tlie army, that he was eldest 
son of the hereditary Grand Bootjaek 
of the Empire, and the heir to that 
honor of wliieh his ancestors had been 
very proud, having been kicked for 
twenty generations by one imperial 
foot, as they drew the boot from the 
other. I have heard that the old 
Lord Castlewood, of part of whose 
family these present volumes arc a 
chronicle, though he came of quite as 
good blood as the Stuarts whom he 
served (and who as regards mere lin- 
eage are no better than a dozen Eng- 
lish and Scottish houses 1 could 
name), was prouder of his post about 
the Court than of his ancestral honors, 
and valued his dignity (as Lord of the 
Butteries and Groom of the King’s 
Posset) so highly, that he cheerfully 
ruined himself for the thankless and 
thriftless race who bestowed it. He 
pawned his plate for King Charles the 
Eirst, mortgaged his property for the 
same cause, and lost the greater part 
of it by fines and sequestration : stood 
a siege of his castle by Ireton, where 
his brother Thomas capitulated (af- 
terward making terms with the Com- 
monwealth, for which the elder broth- 
er never forgave him), and where his 
second brother Edward, who had em- 
braced the ecclesiastical profession, 
was slain on Castlewood Tower, being 
engaged there both as preacher and 
artilleryman. This resolute old loy- 
alist, who was with the King whilst 
his house was thus being battered 
down, escaped abroad with his only 
son, then a boy, to return and take a 
part in Worcester fight. On that fa- 
tal field Eustace Esmond was killed, 
and Castlewood fled from it once 
more into exile, and henceforward, and 
after the Restoration, never was away 
from the court of the monarch (for 
whose return we offer thanks in the 
Prayer-Book) who sold his country and 
who took bribes of the French king. 

What spectacle is more august than 


that of a great king in exile ? Who 
is more worthy of respect than a 
brave man in misfortune ? Mr. Ad- 
dison has painted such a figure in his 
noble piece of Cato. But suppose 
fugitive Cato fuddling himself at a 
tavern with a wench on each knee, a 
dozen faithful and tipsy companions 
of defeat, and a landlord calling out 
for his bill ; and the dignity of mis- 
fortune is straightway lost. The His- 
torical Muse turns away shamefaced 
from the vulgar scene, and closes the 
door — on which the exile’s unpaid 
drink is scored up — upon him and 
his pots and his pipes, and the tavern 
chorus which he and his friends are 
singing. Such a man as Charles 
should have had an Ostade or Mieris 
to paint him. Y^our Knellers and Le 
Bruns only deal in clumsy and im- 
possible allegories : and it hath always 
seemed to me blasphemy to claim 
Olympus for such a wine-drabbled 
divinity as that. 

About the King’s follower, the 
Viscount Castlewood, — orphan of 
his son, ruined by his fidelity, bear- 
ing many wounds and marks of 
bravery, old and in exile, — his kins- 
men 1 suppose should be silent ; nor 
if this patriarch fell down in his cups, 
call fie upon him, and fetch passers- 
by to laugh at his red face and white 
hairs. AVhat! does a stream rush 
out of a mountain free and pure, to 
roll through fair pastures, to feed and 
throw out bright tributaries, and to 
end in a village gutter? Lives that 
have noble commencements have often 
no better endings ; it is not Avithout 
a kind of aAve and reverence that an 
observer should speculate upon such 
careers as he traces the course of 
them. I ha\"e seen too much of suc- 
cess in life to take off my hat and 
huzza to it as it passes in its gilt 
coach : and Avould do my little part 
with my neighbors on foot, that they 
should not gape Avith too much Avon- 
der, nor apjilaud too loudly. Is it 
the Lord Mayor going in state to 
mince-pies aiul the Mansion House ? 
Is it poor Jack of NcAvgate’s proces- 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


11 


sion, with the sheriff and javelin-men, 
conductin'^ him on his last journey 
to Tyburn 1 I look into my heart 
and think that I am as good as my 
Lord Mayor, and know I am as bad 
as Tvburii Jack. Give me a chain 
and red gown and a pudding before 
me, and I could play the part of 
Alderman very well, and sentence 
Jack after dinner. Starve me, keep 
me from books and honest people, 
educate me to love dice, gin, and 
j)leasure, and put me on Hounslow 
Heath, with a purse before me, and I 
will take it. “ And I shall be de- 
servedly hanged,” say you, wishing 
to put an end to this prosing. I don’t 
say No. I can’t but accept the world 
as I find it, including a rope’s end, as 
long as it is in fashion. 

— ♦ 

CHAPTER 1. 

AN ACCOUNT OP THE FAMILY OF 
ESMOND OF CASTLEWOOD HALL. 

When Francis, fourth Viscount 
Castlewood, came to his title, and 
resently after to take possession of 
is house of Castlewood, county 
Hants, in the year 1691, almost the 
only tenant of the place besides the 
domestics was a lad of twelve years 
of age, of whom no one seemed to 
take any note until my Lady Vis- 
countess lighted upon him, going over 
the house with the housekeeper on 
the day of her arrival. The boy was 
in the room known as the Book-room, 
or Yellow Gallery, where the por- 
traits of the family used to hang, that 
fine piece among others of Sir An- 
tonio Van Dyck of George, second 
Viscount, and that by Mr. Dobson 
of my Lord the third Viscount, just 
deceased, which it seems his lady and 
widow (lid not think fit to carry 
away, when she sent for and carried 
off' to her house at Chelsey, near to 
London, the pictu?*e of herself by Sir 
Peter Lely, in which her Ladyship 
was represented as a huntress of 
Diana’s court. 


The new and fair lady of Castle- 
wood found the sad, lonely, little 
occupant of this gallery busy over 
his great book, which he laid down 
when he was aware that a stranger 
was at hand. And, knowing who that 
person must be, the lad stood up and 
bowed before her, performing a shy 
obeisance to the mistress of his house. 

She stretched out her hand, — in- 
deed 'when was it that that hand 
would not stretch out to do an act 
of kindness, or to protect grief and 
ill fortune '? “ And this is our kins- 

man,” she said ; “ and what is your 
name, kinsman ? ” 

“ My name is Henry Esmond,” 
said the lad, looking up at her in a 
sort of delight and wonder, for she 
had come upon him as a IJea certe^ 
and appeared the most charming ob- 
ject he had ever looked on. Her 
golden hair was shining in the gold 
of the sun ; her complexion was of a 
dazzling bloom ; her lips smiling, 
and her eyes beaming with a kind- 
ness which made Harry Esmond’s 
heart to beat with surprise. 

“ His name is Henry Esmond, 
sure enough, my Lady,” says Mrs. 
Worksop, the housekeeper (an old 
tyrant whom Henry Esmond plagued 
more than he hated), and the old 
gentlewoman looked significantly to- 
wards the late lord’s picture, as it 
now is in the family, noble and 
severe-looking, with his hand on his 
sword, and his order on his cloak, 
which he had from the Emperor dur- 
ing the war on the Danube against 
the Turk. 

Seeing the great and undeniable 
likeness between this portrait and the 
lad, the new Viscountess, who had 
still hold of the boy’s hand as she 
looked at the picture, blushed and 
dropped the hand quickly, and walked 
down the gallery, followed by Mrs. 
Worksop. 

When the lady came back, Harry 
Esmond stood exactly in the same 
spot, and with his hand as it had 
fallen when he dropped it on his 
black coat. 


12 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


Her heart melted, I suppose (in- 
deed she hath since owned as much), 
at the notion that slic should do 
anything unkind to any mortal, 
great or small ; for, when she re- 
turned, she had sent away the house- 
keeper upon an errand by the door 
at the farther end of the gallery ; and, 
coming back to the lad, with a look 
of infinite pity and tenderness in her 
eyes, she took his hand again, placing 
her other fair hand on his head, and 
saying some words to him, which were 
so kind, and said in a voice so SAveet, 
that the boy, who had never looked 
upon so much beauty before, felt as 
if the touch of a superior being or 
angel smote him down to the ground, 
and kissed the fair protecting hand 
as he knelt on one knee. To the 
A’cry last hour of his life, Esmond 
remembered the lady as she then 
spoke and looked, the rings on her 
fair hands, the very scent of her robe, 
the beam of her eyes lighting up Avith 
surprise and kindness, her lips bloom- 
ing in a smile, the sun making a 
golden halo round her hair. 

As the boy Avas yet in this attitude 
of humility, enters behind him a 
portly gentleman, Avith a little girl 
of four years old in his hand. The 
gentleman burst into a great laugh 
at the lady and her adorer, Avith his 
little queer figure, his salloAv face, 
and long black hair. The lady 
blushed, and seemed to deprecate his 
ridicule by a look of appeal to her 
husband, for it Avas my Lord Vis- 
count Avho noAv arrived, and Avhoin 
the lad kncAv, having once before 
seen him in the late lord’s life- 
time. 

“ 8o this is the little priest ! ” says 
my Lord, looking doAvn at the lad ; 
“ AA'cleome, kinsman.” 

“ He is saying his prayers to mam- 
ma,” says the little girl, Avho came 
up to her papa’s knees ; and my Lord 
burst out into another great laugh at 
this, and kinsman Henry looked ati v 
silly- lie invented a half-dozen of 
speeches in rej)ly, but ’t Avas months 
aftcrAvards Avhen he thought of this 


adventure : as it AAns, he had never 
a Avord in ansAver. 

“ Le pauvre enfant, il n’a que nous,” 
says the lady, looking to lier lord ; 
and the boy, avIio understood her, 
though doubtless she thought other- 
Avise, thanked her Avith all his heart 
lor her kind speech. 

“ And he sha’ n’t Avant for friends 
here,” says my Lord, in a kind voice, 
“ shall he, little Trix ? ” 

The little girl, Avhosc name Avas 
Beatrix, and Avhom her papa called 
by this diminutive, looked at Henry 
Esmond solemnly, Avith a pair of large 
eyes, and then a smile shone over her 
face, Avhich Avas as beautiful as that 
of a cherub, and she came up and 
put out a little hand to him. A keen 
and delightful pang of gratitude, hap- 
])iness, aficction, filled the orphan 
child’s heart, as lie reeeived from the 
protectors, Avhom Heaven had sent to 
him, these touching Avords and tokens 
of friendliness and kindness. But an 
hour since, he had felt quite alone in 
the Avorld : Avhen he heard the great 
peal of bells from CastleAvood church 
ringing that morning to Avclcome the 
arrival of the ncAv lord and lady, it 
had rung only terror and anxiety to 
him, for he kncAv not hoAv the ncAV 
owner Avould deal Avith him ; and 
tho.se to Avhom he formerly looked for 
])rotection Avere forgotten or dead. 
Pride and doubt too had kept him 
Avithin doors, Avhen the Vicar and tbe 
people of the village, and the servants 
of the house, haci gone out to Avel- 
comc my Lord CastlcAAOod, — for 
Henry Esmond Avas no servant, though 
a dependant; no relative, though he 
bore the name and inherited the blood 
of the house ; and in the midst of the 
noise and acclamations attending the 
arrival of the new lord (for Avhom, 
you may be sure, a feast Avas got 
ready, and guns Avere fired, and 
tenants and domestics huzzaed Avhen 
his cariiage approached and rolled 
into the court-yard of the Hall), no 
one ewer took any notice of young 
Henry Esmond, Avho sat unobscrvi d 
and alone in the Book-room, until the 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


13 


afternoon of that day, when his new 
friends found him. 

When ray Lord and Lady were 
going away tlience, the little girl, 
still holding her kinsman by the hand, 
bade him to come too. “ Thou wilt 
always forsake an old friend for a new 
one, Trix,” says her father to her 
good-naturedly ; and went into the 
gallery, giving an arm to his lady. 
They passed thence through the music- 
gallery, long since dismantled, and 

Queen Elizabeth’s Rooms, in the 

clock-tower, and out into the terrace, 
where was a tine prospect of sunset 
and the great darkling woods with a 
cloud of rooks returning ; and the 
plain and river with Castlewood vil- 
lage beyond, and purple hills beauti- 
ful to look at, — and the little heir of 
Castlewood, a child of two years old, 
was already here on the terrace in his 
nurse’s arms, from whom he ran 

across the grass instantly he per- 

ceived his mother, and came to her. 

“ If thou canst not be happy liere,” 
says my Lord, looking round at the 
scene, “ thou art hard to please, 
Raehel.” 

“ I am happy where you are,” she 
said, “ but we were happiest of all at 
Walcote Forest.” Then my Lord 
began to describe what was before 
them to his wife, and what indeed 
little Harry knew better than he, — 
viz. the history of the house : how 
by yonder gate the page ran away 
with the heiress of Castlewood, by 
which the estate came into the present 
family ; how the Roundheads attack- 
ed the clock-tower, which ray Lord’s 
father was slain in defending. “ I 
Avas but two years old then,” says he, 
“ but take forty-six from ninety, and 
how old shall I be, kinsman Harry 1 ” 

“ Thirty,” says his wife, with a 
laugh. 

“ A great deal too old for you, 
Rachel,” answers my Lord, looking 
fondly down at her. Indeed she 
seemed to be a girl, and was at that 
time scarce twctity years old 

“ You know, Frank, I will do any- 
thing to please you,” says she, “ and 


I promise you I will grow older every 
day.” 

“ You must n’t call papa Frank ; 
you must call papa my Lord now,” 
says Miss Beatrix, Avith a toss of her 
little head ; at Avhich the mother 
smiled, and the good-natured father 
laughed, and the little trotting boy 
laughed, not knowing Avhy, — but 
because he Avas happy, no doubt, — as 
every one seemed to be tliere. How 
those trivial incidents and Avords, the 
landscape and sunshine, and the 
group of people smiling and talking, 
remain fixed on the memory ! 

As the sun Avas setting, the little 
heirAvas sent in the arms of his nurse 
to bed, Avhither he went howling ; 
but little Trix Avas promised to sit to 
supper that night, — “and you AAdll 
come too, kinsman, Avon’t you 1 ” she 
said. 

IlaiTy Esmond blushed: “I — I 
haA^e supper Avith Mrs. Worksop,” 
says he. 

“ D n it,” says my Lord, “ thou 

shalt sup Avith us, Harry, to-night ! 
Sha’ n’t refuse a lady, shall he, Trix ? ” 
— and they all Avondered at Harry’s 
performance as a trencher-man, in 
Avhich character the poor boy acquit- 
ted himself very remarkably ; for the 
truth is he had had no dinner, nobody 
thinking of him in the bustle Avhich 
the house Avas in, during the prepara- 
tions antecedent to the ncAv lord’s 
arriA'al. 

“ No dinner ! poor dear child ! ” 
says my Lady, heaping up his plate 
Avith meat, and my Lord, filling a 
bumper for him, bade him call a 
health ; on Avhich Master Harry, cry- 
ing “ The King,” tossed olF the Avine. 
My Lord was ready to drink that, and 
most other toasts : indeed only too 
ready. He would not hear of Doctor 
Tushcr (the Vicar of CastlcAvood, 
Avho came to supper) going aAvay 
Avhen the sweetmeats Avere brought : 
he had not had a chaplain long 
enough, he said, to be tired of him: 
so his reverence kept my Lord com- 
pany for some hours over a pipe and 
a punch-boAvl ; and Aveiit aAvay home 


14 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


with rather a reeling gait, and declar- 
ing a dozen of times, that his Lord- 
ship’s adability surpassed every kind- 
ness he had ever had from his Lord- 
ship’s gracious family. 

As for young Esmond, when he got 
to his litde chamber, it was with a 
heart full of surprise and gratitude 
towards the new friends whom this 
happy day had brought him. He was 
up and watching long before the house 
was astir, longing to see that fair 
lady and her children, — that kind 
protector and patron ; and only fear- 
ful least their welcome of the past 
night should in any way be withdrawn 
or altered. But ])resently little Bea- 
trix came out into the garden, and 
her mother followed, who greeted 
Harry as kindly as before. He told 
her at greater lengtli the histories of 
the house (which he had been taught 
in the old lord’s time), and to which 
she listened with great interest ; and 
then he told her, with respect to the 
night before, that he understood 
French, and thanked her for her pro- 
tection. 

“ Do you ? ” says she, Avith a blush ; 
“then, sir, you shall teach me and 
Beatrix.” And she asked him many 
more questions regarding himself, 
Avhich had best be told more fully and 
explicitly than in those brief replies 
which the lad made to his mistress’s 
questions. 

• — 

CHAPTER II. 

EELATES HOW FRANCIS, FOURTH VIS- 
COUNT, ARRIVES AT CASTLEAVOOD. 

’T IS known that the name of Es- 
mond and the estate of Castlewood, 
com. Hants, came into possession of 
the present family through Dorothea, 
daughter and heiress of Edward, Earl 
and Marquis Iilsmond, and Lord of 
Castlewood, Avhich lady married, 23 
Eliz., Henry Poyns, gent. ; the said 
Henry being then a page in the house- 
hold of her father. Francis, son and 
heir of the above Henry and Dorothea, 


Avho took the maternal name Avhich 
the family hath borne subsequently, 
was made Knight and Baronet by 
King James the First; and being of 
a military disposition, remained long 
in Germany with the Elector-Palatine, 
in Avhose service Sir Francis incurred 
both expense and danger, lending 
large sums of money to that unfor- 
tunate Prince; and receiving many 
Avounds in the battles against the Im- 
perialists, in Avhich Sir Francis en- 
gaged. 

On his return home Sir Francis AA^as 
rcAvardcd lor his services and many 
sacrifices, by his late Majesty James 
the First, Avho graciously conferred 
upon this tried servant the post of 
Warden of the Butteries and Groom of 
the King’s Posset, Avhich high and 
confidential office he filled in that 
king’s and his unhappy successor’s 
reign. 

His age, and many Avounds and in- 
firmities, obliged Sir Francis to per- 
form much of his duty by deputy; 
and his son. Sir George Esmond, 
knight and banneret, first as his 
lather’s lieutenant, and afterAvards as 
inheritor of his father’s title and dig- 
nity, performed this office during al- 
most the whole of the reign of King 
Charles the First, and his tAvo sons 
Avho succeeded him. 

Sir George Esmond married, rather 
beneath the rank that a person of his 
name and honor might aspire to, the 
daughter of Thos. Topham, of the 
city of London, alderman and gold- 
smith, Avho, taking the Parliamentary 
side in the troubles then commencing, 
disappointed Sir George of the prop- 
erty Avhich he exiiected at the demise 
of his father-in-laAV, Avho devised his 
money to his second daughter, Bar- 
bara, a spinster. 

Sir George Esmond, on his part, 
Avas conspicuous for his attachment 
and loyalty to the Royal cause and 
person ; and the King being at Ox- 
ford in 1642, Sir George, Avith the 
consent of his father, then very aged 
and infirm, and residing at his house 
of CastlcAvood, melted the whole of 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 15 


the family plate for his Majesty’s ser- 
vice. 

For this, and other sacrifices 
and merits, his Mnjesty, by pat- 
ent under the Privy Seal, dated 
Oxford, Jan., 1643, was pleased to 
advance Sir Francis Esmond to 
the dignity of Viscount Castlewood, 
of Shandon, in Ireland : and the Vis- 
count’s estate being much impover- 
ished by loans to the King, Avhieh in 
those troublesome times his Majesty 
could not repay, a grant of land in 
the plantations of Virginia was given 
to the Lord Viscount ; part of which 
land is in possession of descendants 
of his fixmily to the present day. 

The first Viscount Castlewood died 
full of years, and within a few months 
after he had been advanced to his 
honors. He was succeeded by his 
eldest son, the before-named George ; 
and left issue besides, Thomas, a 
colonel in the King’s army, that 
afterwards joined the Usurper’s Gov- 
ernment ; and Francis, in holy orders, 
who was slain xvhilst defending the 
House of Castlewood against the Par- 
liament, anno 1647. 

George Lord Castlewood (the sec- 
ond viscount), of King Charles the 
First’s time, had no male issue save 
his one son, Eustace Esmond, who 
was killed, with half of the Castle- 
wood men beside him, at Worcester 
fight. The lands about Castlewood 
were sold and apportioned to the 
Commonwealth men ; Castlexvood 
being concerned in almost all of the 
plots against the Protector, after the 
death of the King, and up to King 
Charles the Second’s restoration. 
My Lord followed that king’s Court 
about in its exile, having ruined him- 
self in its service. He had but one 
daughter, who was of no great com- 
fort to her father ; for misfortune had 
not taught those exiles sobriety of 
life ; and it is said that the Duke of 
York and his brother the King both 
quarrelled about Isabel Esmond. 
She was maid of honor to the Queen 
Henrietta Maria; she early joined 
the Koman Church; her father, a 


weak man, following her not long 
after at Breda. 

On the death of Eustace Esmond 
at Worcester, Thomas Esmond, 
nephew to my Lord Castlewood, and 
then a stripling, became heir to the 
title. His father had taken the Par- 
liament side in the quarrels, and so 
had been estranged from the chief of 
his house ; and my Lord Castlewood 
was at first so much enraged to think 
that his title (albeit little more than 
an empty one now) should pass to a 
rascally Roundhead, that he would 
have married again, and indeed pro- 
posed to do so to a vintner’s daughter 
at Bruges, to whom his Lordship 
owed a score for lodging when the 
King was there, but for fear of the 
laughter of the Court, and the anger 
of his daughter, of whom he stood in 
awe ; for she was in temper as impe- 
rious and violent as my Lord, xvho 
was much enfeebled by wounds and 
drinking, was weak. 

Lord Castlewood would have had a 
match between his daughter Isabel 
and her cousin, the son of that Fran- 
cis Esmond Avho xvas killed at Castle- 
wood siege. And the lady, it was 
said, took a fancy to the young man, 
who was her junior by several years 
(which circumstance she did not con- 
sider to be a fixult in him) ; but having 
paid his court, and being admitted to 
the intimacy of the house, he sudden- 
ly flung up his suit, when it seemed 
to be pretty prosperous, without giv- 
ing a pretext for his behavior. His 
friends rallied him at what they 
laughingly chose to call his infidelity. 
Jack Churchill, Frank Esmond’s 
lieutenant in the Royal Regiment of 
Foot-guards, getting the company 
which Esmond vacated, when he left 
the Court and went to Tangier in a 
rage at discovering that his j)romo- 
tion depended on the complaisance 
of his elderly affianced bride. He 
and Churchill, who had been condis- 
cipuli at St. Paul’s School, had words 
about this matter; and Frank Es- 
mond said to him with an oath, 
“ Jack, your sister may be so-and-so, 


16 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


but by Jove my wife sha’ n’t ! ” and 
swords were drawn, and blood drawn 
too, until friends separated them on 
this quarrel. Few men were so jeal- 
ous about the point of honor in 
those days ; and gentlemen of good 
birth and lineage thought a royal 
blot was an ornament to their family 
coat. Frank Esmond retired in the 
sulks, first to Tangier, whence he 
returned after two years’ service, 
settling on a small property he had 
of his mother, near to Winchester, 
and became a country gentleman, 
and ke])t a pack of beagles, and never 
came to Court again in King Charles’s 
time. But his uncle Castlewood was 
never reconciled to him ; nor, for 
some time afterwards, his cousin 
whom he had refused. 

By places, pensions, bounties from 
France, and gifts from the King, 
whilst his daughter was in favor. 
Lord Castlewood, who had spent in 
the Boyal service his youth and for- 
tune, did not retrieve the latter quite, 
and never cared to visit Castlewood, 
or repair it, since the death of his 
son, but managed to keep a good 
house, and figure at Court, and to 
save a considerable sum of ready 
money. 

And now, his heir and nephew, 
Thomas Esmond, began to bid for 
his uncle’s favor. Thomas had served 
■with the Emperor, and with the 
Dutch, when King Charles was com- 
pelled to lend troops to the States ; 
and against them, when his Majesty 
made an alliance with the French 
King. In these campaigns Thomas 
Esmond was more remarked for duel- 
ling, brawling, vice, and play, than 
for any conspicuous gallantry in the 
field, and came back to England, like 
many another English gentleman who 
has travelled, with a character by no 
means improved by his foreign expe- 
rience. He had dissipated his small 
atcrnal inheritance of a younger 
rothcr’s portion, and, as truth must 
be told, was no better than a hanger- 
on of ordinaries, and a brawler about 
Alsatia and the Friars, when he be- 


thought him of a means of mending 
his fortune. 

His cousin was now of more than 
middle age, and had nobody’s word 
but her own for the beauty which she 
said she once possessed. She was 
lean, and yellow, and long in the 
tooth ; all the red and white in all 
the toy -shops in London could not 
make a beauty of her, — Mr. Killi- 
grew called her the Sybil, the death’s- 
head put up at the King’s feast as a 
memento mom', &c., — in fine, a woman 
who might be easy of conquest, but 
whom only a very bold man would 
think of conquering. This bold 
man was Thomas Esmond. He had 
a fancy to my Lord Castlewood’s sav- 
ings, the amount of which rumor had 
very much exaggerated. Madam Isa- 
bel was said to have Royal jcAvcls of 
great value ; Avhercas poor Tom Es- 
mond’s last coat but one was in the 
paAvn. 

My Lord had at this time a fine 
house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, nigh to 
the Duke’s Theatre and the Portugal 
ambassador’s chapel. Tom Esmond, 
Avho had frequented the one as long 
as he had money to spend among the 
actresses, noAv came to the church as 
assiduously. He looked so lean and 
shabby, that he passed Avithout difii- 
culty for a repentant sinner ; and so, 
becoming conA'crtcd, you may be sure 
took his uncle’s priest for a director. 

This charitable father reconciled 
him Avith the old lord, his uncle, Avho 
a short time before Avould not speak 
to him, as Tom passed under my 
Lord’s coach AvindoAA', his Lordship 
going in state to his place at Court, 
Avhile his nepheAV slunk by Avith his 
battered hat and feather, and the point 
of his rapier sticking out of the scab- 
bard, — to his tAA'openny ordinary in 
Bell Y"ard. 

Thomas Esmond, after this recon- 
ciliation Avith his uncle, very soon 
began to groAv sleek, and to shoAV 
signs of the benefits of good living 
and clean linen. He fasted rigorous- 
ly tAvice a Aveek, to be sure ; but he 
made amends on the other days : and. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


17 


to show how great his appetite was, 
Mr. Wycherley said, he ended by 
swallowing that fly-blown rank old 
morsel his cousin. There were end- 
less jokes and lampoons about this 
marriage at Court ; but Tom rode 
thither in his uncle’s coach now, called 
him father, and having won could af- 
ford to laugh. This marriage took 
place very shortly before King Charles 
died : whom the Viscount of Castle- 
wood speedily followed. 

The issue of this marriage was one 
son, Avhom the parents watched with 
an intense eagerness and care ; but 
who, in spite of nurses and physicians, 
had only a brief existence. His 
tainted blood did not run very long 
in his poor feeble little body. Symp- 
toms of evil broke out early on him ; 
and, part from flattery, part supersti- 
tion, nothing would satisfy my Lord 
and Lady, especially the latter, but 
having the poor little cripple touched 
by his Majesty at his church. They 
were ready to cry out miracle at first 
(the doctors and quack-salvers being 
constantly in attendance on the child, 
and experimenting on his poor little 
body with every conceivable nostrum), 
— but though there seemed, from 
some reason, a notable amelioration 
in the infant’s health after his Majes- 
ty touched him, in a few weeks after- 
ward the poor thing died, — causing 
the lampooners of the Court to say, 
that the King, in expelling evil out 
of the infant of Tom Esmond and 
Isabella his wife, expelled the life out 
of it, which was nothing but corrup- 
tion. 

The mother’s natural pang at losing 
this poor little child must have been 
increased when she thought of her ri- 
val Frank Esmond’s wife, who was a 
favorite of the whole Court, where my 
poor Lady Castlewood was neglected, 
and who had one child, a daughter, 
flourishing and beautiful, and was 
about to beeome a mother once more. 

The Court, as I have heard, only 
laughed the more beeauso the poor 
lady, who had pretty well passed the 
age when ladies are accustomed to 


have children, nevertheless determined 
not to give hope up, and even when 
she came to live at Castlewood, was 
constantly sending over to Hexton 
for the doctor; and announcing to her 
friends the arrival of an heir. This 
absurdity of hers was one amongst 
many others which the wags used to 
play upon. Indeed, to the last days 
of her life, my Lady Viscountess had 
the comfort of fancying herself beau- 
tiful, and persisted in blooming up to 
the very midst of winter, painting 
roses on her cheeks long after their 
natural season, and attiring herself 
like summer though her head was 
covered with snow. 

Gentlemen who were about the 
Court of King Charles, and King 
James, have told the present writer 
a number of stories about this queer 
old lady, with which it’s not neces- 
sary that posterity should be enter- 
tained. She is said to have had 
great powers of invective ; and, if she 
fought with all her rivals in King 
James’s favor, ’tis certain she must 
have had a vast number of quarrels on 
her hands. She was a woman of an 
intrepid spirit, and, it appears, pur- 
sued and rather fatigued his Majesty 
with her rights and her wrongs. 
Some say that the cause of her leav- 
ing Court was jealousy of Frank Es- 
mond’s wife; others, that she was 
forced to retreat after a great battle 
which took place at Whitehall, be- 
tween her Ladyship and Lady Dor- 
chester, Tom Killigrew’s daughter, 
whom the King delighted to honor, 
and in which that ill-favored Esther 
got the better of our elderly Vashti. 
But her Ladyship, for her part, always 
averred that it was her husband’s quar- 
rel, and not her own, which occasioned 
the banishment of the two into the 
country ; and the cruel ingratitude of 
the Sovereign in giving away, out of 
the family, that place of Warden of 
the Butteries and Groom of the King’s 
Posset which the two last Lords Cas- 
tlewood had hold so honorably, and 
which was now conferred upon a follow 
of yesterday, and a hanger-on of that 
B 


18 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


odious Dorchester creature, my Lord 
Bergamot;* “I never,” said my 
Lady, “ could have come to see his 
Majesty’s posset carried by any other 
hand than an Esmond. I should 
have dashed the salver out of Lord 
Bergamot’s hand, had I met him.” 
And those who knew her Ladyship 
are aware that she was a person quite 
capable of performing this feat, had 
she not wisely kept out of the way. 

Holding the purse-strings in her 
own control, to which, indeed, she 
liked to bring most persons Avho came 
near her. Lady Castlewood could com- 
mand her Intsband’s obedience, and so 
broke up her establishment at Lon- 
don ; she had removed from Lincoln’s 
Inn Fields to Chelsey, to a pretty 
new house she bouglit there; and 
brought her establishment, her maids, 
lap-dogs, and gentlewomen, her 
priest, and his Lordship her husband, 
to Castlewood Hall, that slie had never 
seen since she quitted it as a child 
with her father during the troubles of 
King Charles the First’s reign. The 
walls were still open in the old house 
as they had been left by the shot of 
the Common weal thmen. A pnrt of 
the mansion was restored and fur- 
bished up with the plate, hangings, 
and furniture brought from the house 
in London. My Lady meant to have 
a triumphal entry into Castlewood 
village, and expected the people to 
cheer as she drove over the Green in 
her great coach, my Lord beside her, 
her gentlewomen, lap-dogs, and cock- 
atoos on the opposite seat, six horses 
to her carriage, and servants armed 
and mounted following it and preced- 
ing it. But ’twas in the height of 
the No-Popery cry ; the folks in the 
village and the neighboring town 

* Lionel Tipton, created Baron Bergamot, 
ann. 1686, Gentleman Usher of the Back 
Stairs, and afterwards appointed Warden of 
the Butteries and Groom of the King’s Posset 
(on the decease of George, second Vuscount 
Castlewood), accompanied his Majesty to St. 
Germain’s, where he died without issue. No 
Groom of the Posset was appointed by the 
Prince of Orange, nor hath there been such 
an officer in any succeeding reign. 


were scared by the sight of her Lady- 
ship’s painted face and eyelids, as 
she bobbed her head out of the coach 
window, meaning, no doubt, to be 
very gracious ; and one old woman 
said, “ Lady Isabel ! lord-a-mercy, it ’s 
Lady Jezebel ! ” a name ity which 
the enemies of the right honorable 
Viscountess were afteiwards in the 
habit of designating her. The coun- 
try was then in a great No-Popery 
fervor ; her Ladyship’s known conver- 
sion, and her husband’s, the priest in 
her train, and the service performed 
at the chapel of Castlewood ( though 
the chapel had been built for that 
worship before any other was heard 
of in the country, and though the 
service was performed in the most 
quiet manner), got her no favor at 
first in the county or village. By 
far the greater part of the estate of 
Castlewood had been confiscated, and 
been parcelled out to Commonwealth- 
men. One or two of these old 
Cromwellian soldiers were still alive 
in the village, and looked grimly at 
first upon my Lady Viscountess, 
when she came to dwell there. 

She appeared at the Hexton As- 
sembly, bringing her lord after her, 
scaring the country folks with the 
splendor of her diamonds, which she 
always wore in public. They said 
she wore them in private, too, and 
slept with them round her neck ; 
though the writer can pledge his word 
that this was a calumny. “ If she Avere 
to take them otf,” my Lady Sark 
said, “ Tom Esmond, her husband, 
would run aAvay tvith them and 
pawn them.” ’T was another calum- 
ny. My Lady Sark was also an exile 
from Court, and there had been war 
between the two ladies before. 

The village people began to be rec- 
onciled presently to their lady, avIio 
was generous and kind, though fan- 
tastic and haughty, in her Avays ; and 
Avhose praises Dr. Tusher, the Vicar, 
sounded loudly amongst his flock. As 
for my Lord, hegaA'eno great trouble, 
being considered scarce more than an 
appendage to nay Lady, Avho, as 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


19 


daughter of the old lords of Castle- 
wood, and possessor of vast wealth, 
as the country folks said (though in- 
deed nine tenths of it existed but in 
rumor), was looked upon as the real 
queen of the Castle, and mistress of 
all it contained. 


— * — 

CHAPTER III. 

WHITHER IN THE TIME OF THOMAS, 

THIRD VISCOUNT, I HAD PRECED- 
ED HIM AS PAGE TO ISABELLA. 

Coming up to London again some 
short time after this retreat, the Lord 
Castlewood despatched a retainer of 
his to a little cottage in the village of 
Ealing, near to London, Avhere for 
some time had dwelt an old French 
refugee, by name Mr. Pastourcau, one 
of those whom the persecution of the 
Huguenots by the French king had 
brought over to this country. With 
this old man lived a little lad who 
went by the name of Henry Thomas. 
He remembered to have lived in an- 
other place a short time before, near 
to London, too, amongst looms and 
spinning-wheels, and a great deal of 
psalm-singing and church-going, and 
a whole colony of Frenchmen. 

There he had a dear, dear friend, 
who died, and whom he called aunt. 
She used to visit him in his dreams 
sometimes ; and her face, though it 
was homely, was a thousand times 
dearer to liim than that of Mrs. Pas- 
toureau, Bon Papa Pastoureau’s new 
wife, who came to live with him after 
aunt went away. And there, at Spit- 
tleHelds, as it used to be called, lived 
Uncle George, who was a weaver too, 
but used to tell Harry that he was a 
little gentleman, and that his father 
was a Captain, and his mother an 
angel. 

When he said so. Bon Papa used 
to look up from the loom, where he 
was embroidering beautiful silk flow- 
ers, and say, “ Angel ! she belongs 
to the Babylonish scarlet woman.” 


Bon Papa was always talking of the 
scarlet woman. He had a little room 
where he always used to preach and 
sing hymns out of his great old nose. 
Little Harry did not like preaching ; 
he liked better the fine stories which 
aunt used to tell him. Bon Papa’s 
wife never told him pretty stories ; 
she quarrelled with Uncle George, 
and he went away. 

After this Harry’s Bon Papa and 
his wife and two children of her own 
that she had brought with her, came 
to live at Ealing. The new wife 
gave her children the best of every- 
thing, and Harry many a whipping, 
he knew not why. Besides blows, he 
got ill names from her, which need 
not be set down here for the sake of 
old Mr. Pastoureau, who was still 
kind sometimes. The unhappiness 
of those days is long forgiven, though 
they cast a shade of melancholy over 
the child’s youth which will accom- 
pany him, no doubt, to the end of his 
days : as those tender twigs arc bent 
the trees grow afterwards ; and he, 
at least, who has suffered as a child, 
and is not quite perverted in that 
early school of unhappiness, learns to 
be gentle and long-suffering with lit- 
tle children. 

Harry was very glad when a gen- 
tleman dressed in black, on horse- 
back, with a mounted servant behind 
him, came to fetch him away from 
Ealing. The noverca, or unjust 
step-mother, whohad neglected him for 
her own two children, gave him sup- 
per enough the night before he went 
away, and plenty in the morning. 
She did not beat him once, and told 
the children to keep their hands off 
him. One was a girl, and Harry 
nevfr could bear to strike a girl ; 
and the other was a boy, whom he 
could easily have beat, but he always 
cried out, Avlien Mrs. Pastoureau came 
sailing to the rescue with arms like 
a flail. She only washed Harry’s 
face the day he went away ; nor 
ever so much as once boxed his ears. 
She whimpered rather when the gen- 
tleman in black came for the boy ; 


20 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


and old Mr. Pastourean, as he gave 
the child his blessing, scowled over 
his shoulder at the strange gentle- 
man, and grumbled out something 
about Babylon and the scarlet lady. 
He was groAvn quite old, like a child 
almost. Mrs. Pastourcau used to 
wipe his nose as she did to the chil- 
dren. She was a great big, hand- 
some young woman ; but, though she 
pretended to cry, Harry thought ’t was 
only a sham, and sprung quite delight- 
ed upon the horse upon which the lack- 
ey helped him. 

He was a Frenchman ; his name 
was Blaise. The child could talk to 
liim in his own language perfectly 
well ; he knew it better than English 
indeed, having lived hitherto chiefly 
among French people ; and being 
called the Little Frenchman by other 
boys on Ealing Green. He soon 
learnt to speak English perfectly, and 
to forget some of his French ; chil- 
dren forget easily. Some earlier and 
fainter recollections the child had of 
a different country ; and a town with 
tall white houses ; and a ship. But 
these w'ere quite indistinct in the boy’s 
mind, as indeed the memory of Ealing 
soon became, at least of much that he 
suffered there. 

The lackey before whom he rode 
was very lively and voluble, and in- 
formed the boy that the gentleman 
riding before him was my Lord’s 
chaplain, Father Holt, — that he was 
now to be called Master Harry Es- 
mond, — that my Lord Viscount 
Castlewood was his jmrrain, — that 
he was to live at the great house of 
Castlewood, in the province of 
shire, where he would see Mad- 
am the Viscountess, tvho was a grand 
lady. And so, seated on a cloth be- 
fore Blaise’s saddle, Harry Esmond 
was brought to London, and to a fine 
square called Covent Garden, near 
to which his patron lodged. 

Mr. Holt, the priest, took the child 
by the hand, and brought him to this 
nobleman, a grand languid nobleman 
in a great cap and flowered morning- 
gown, sucking oranges. He patted 


Harry on the head and gave him an 
orange. 

“ C’est bien 9a,” he said to the 
priest after eying the child, and the 
gentleman in black shrugged his 
shoulders. 

Let Blaise take him out for a holi- 
day, and out for a holiday the boy 
and the valet w’ent. Harry went 
jumping along ; he was glad enough 
to go. 

He will remember to his life’s end 
the delights of those days. He Avas 
taken to sec a play by Monsieur 
Blaise, in a house a thousand times 
greater and finer than the booth at 
Ealing Fair, — and on the next hap- 
py day they took water on the river, 
and Harry saw London Bridge, with 
the houses and booksellers’ shops 
thereon, looking like a street, and the 
ToAver of London, Avith the Armor, 
and the great lions and bears in the 
moat, — all under company of Mon- 
sieur Blaise. 

Presently, of an early morning, 
all the party set forth for the country, 
namely, my Lord Viscount and the 
other gentleman ; Monsieur Blaise 
and Harry on a pillion behind them, 
and tAvo or three men with pistols 
leading the baggage-horses. And all 
along the road the Frenchman told 
little Harry stories of brigands, Avhich 
made the child’s hair stand on end, 
and terrified him ; so that at the 
great gloomy inn on the road Avhere 
they lay, he besought to be allowed to 
sleep in a room Avith one of the ser- 
A%ants, and was compassionated by 
Mr. Holt, the gentleman aaLo trav- 
elled Avith my Lord, and AAdio gave 
the child a little bed in his chamber. 

His artless talk and ansAvers very 
likely inclined this gentleman in the 
boy’s favor, for the next day Mr. 
Holt said Harry should ride behind 
him, and not Avith the French lack- 
ey ; and all along the journey put 
a thousand questions to the child, — 
as to his foster-brother and relations 
at Ealing ; what his old grandfather 
had taught him ; what languages he 
knew, whether he could read and write. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


21 


and sing, and so forth. And Mr. Holt 
found that Harry could read and 
write, and possessed the two lan- 
guages of French and English very 
well ; and Avhen he asked Harry about 
singing, the lad broke out with a 
hymn to the tune of Dr. Martin Lu- 
ther, which set Mr. Holt a laughing ; 
and even caused his grand parrain in 
the laced hat and periwig to laugh 
too when Holt told him what the 
child was singing. For it appeared 
that Dr. Martin Luther’s hymns were 
not sung in the churches Mr Holt 
preached at. 

“ You must never sing that song 
any more : do you hear, little manni- 
kin ? ” says my Lord Viscount, hold- 
ing up a finger. 

“ But we will try and teach you a 
better, Harry,” Mr. Holt said ; and 
the child answered, for he was a do- 
cile child, and of an affectionate na- 
ture, “ That he loved pretty songs, 
and would try and learn anything the 
gentleman would tell him.” That 
day he so pleased the gentlemen by 
his talk, that they had him to dine 
with them at the inn, and encouraged 
him in his prattle ; and Monsieur 
Blaise, with whom he rode and dined 
the day before, waited upon him now. 

“’T is well, ’t is well ! ” said Blaise, 
that night (in his own language) 
when they lay again at an inn. 
“We are a little lord here ; we are 
a little lord now ; we shall see what 
we are when we come to Castlewood, 
where my Lady is.” 

“ When shall we come to Castle- 
wood, Monsieur Blaise 1 ” says Har- 
ry. 

“ Parbleu ! my Lord does not press 
himself,” Blaise says, with a grin ; 
and, indeed, it seemed as if his Lord- 
ship was not in a great hurry, for he 
spent three days on that journey, 
which Harry Esmond hath often since 
ridden in a dozen hours. For the 
last two of the days Harry rode with 
the priest, who was so kind to him, 
that the child had grown to be quite 
fond and familiar with him by the 
journey’s end, and had scarce a 


thought in his little heart which by 
that time he had not confided to his 
new friend. 

At length, on the third day, at 
evening, they came to a village stand- 
ing on a green with elms round it, 
very pretty to look at ; and the peo- 
ple there all took off their hats, and 
made courtesies to my Lord Viscount, 
who boAved to them all languidly ; 
and there was one portly person that 
wore a cassock and a broad-leafed 
hat, who bowed lower than any one, 
— and with this one both my Lord 
and Mr. Holt had a few words. 
“ This, Harry, is Castlewood church,” 
says Mr. Holt, “and this is the pil- 
lar thereof, learned Doctor Tusher. 
Take off your hat, sirrah, and salute 
Doctor Tusher ! ” 

“ Come up to supper, Doctor,” says 
my Lord ; at which the Doctor rnacie 
another low bow, and the party moved 
on towards a grand house that was 
before them, with many gray towers 
and vanes on them, and windows 
flaming in the sunshine ; and a great 
army of rooks, Avheeling over their 
heads, made for the woods behind 
the house, as Harry saw ; and Mr. 
Holt told him that they lived at Cas- 
tlewood too. 

They came to the house, and passed 
under an arch into a court-yard, with 
a fountain in the centre, where many 
men came and held my Lord’s stirrup 
as he descended, and paid great re- 
spect to Mr. Holt likewise. And the 
child thought that the servants looked 
at him curiously, and smiled to one 
another, — and he recalled what 
Blaise had said to him when they 
Avere in London, and Harry had 
spoken about his godpapa, Avhen the 
Frenchman said, “ Parbleu, one sees 
Avell that my Lord is your godfather ” ; 
words Avhereof the poor lad did not 
knoAV the meaning then, though he 
apprehended the truth in a very short 
time afterwards, and learned it, and 
thought of it Avith no small feeling of 
shame. 

Taking Harry by the hand as soon 
as they were both descended from 


22 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


tlieir horses, Mr. Holt led him across 
the court, and under a low door to 
rooms on a level with the ground ; one 
of which Father Holt said was to he the 
boy’s chamber, the other on the other 
side of tlie passage being the Father’s 
own ; and as soon as the little man’s 
face was washed, and the Father’s own 
dress arranged, Harry’s guide took 
him once more to the door by which 
my Lord had entered the hall, and up 
a stair, and through an anteroom to 
my Lady’s drawing-room, — an apart- 
ment than which Harry thought he 
had never seen anything more grand, 
— no, not in the Tower of London 
which he had just visited. Indeed, 
the chamber was richly ornamented 
in the manner of Queen Elizabeth’s 
time, with great stained windows at 
either end, and hangings of tapestry, 
which the sun shining through the 
colored glass painted of a thousand 
hues ; and here in state, by the fire, 
sat a lady to whom the priest took 
up Harry, who was indeed amazed by 
her appearance. 

My Lady Viscountess’s face was 
daubed witli white and red up to the 
eyes, to which the paint gave an un- 
earthly glare : she had a tower of lace 
on her head, under which was a bush 
of black curls, — borrowed curls, — so 
that no wonder little Harry Esmond 
was scared when he was first pre- 
sented to her, — the kind priest act- 
ing as master of the ceremonies at 
that solemn introduction, — and he 
stared at her with eyes almost as 
great as her own, as he had stared at 
the player-woman who acted the 
wicked tragedy-queen, when the play- 
ers came down to Ealing Fair. She 
sat in a great chair by the fire-cor- 
ner ; in her lap Avas a spaniel-dog 
that barked furiously ; on a little ta- 
ble by her Avas her Ladyship’s snuff- 
box and her sugar-plum box. She 
wore a dress of black velvet, and a 
petticoat of flame-colored brocade. 
She had as many rings on her fingers 
as the old Avoman of Banbury Cross ; 
and pretty small feet Avhich she Avas 
fond of showing, with great gold 


clocks to her stockings, and white 
pantofles Avith red heels ; and an odor 
of musk Avas shook out of her gar- 
ments whencAxr she moved or quitted 
the room, leaning on her tortoise- 
shell stick, little Fury barking at her 
heels. 

Mrs. Tusher, the parson’s Avife, 
Avas Avith my Lady, She had been 
Avaiting-woman to her Ladyship in 
the late lord’s time, and, having her 
soul in that business, took naturally 
to it Avhen the Viscountess of Castle- 
Avood returned to inhabit her father’s 
house. 

“ I present to your Ladyship your 
kinsman and little page of honor, 
Master Henry Esmond,” Mr. Holt 
said, boAving loAvly, Avith a sort of 
comical humility. “Make a pretty 
bow to my Lady, Monsieur ; and then 
another little boAV, not so Ioav, to 
Madam Tusher, — the fair priestess 
of CastlcAvood.” 

“ Where I have liA’ed and hope to 
die, sir,” says Madam Tusher, giving 
a hard glance at the brat, and then at 
my Lady. ' 

Upon her the boy’s whole attention 
Avas for a time directed. He could 
not keep his great eyes off from her. 
Since the Empress of Ealing, he had 
seen nothing so aAvful, 

“ Does my appearance please you, 
little page? ” asked the lady. 

“ He Avould be very hard to please 
if it did n’t,” cried Madam Tusher. 

“ HaA-e done, you silly Maria,” said 
Lady CastlcAvood. 

“ Where I ’m attached, I ’m at- 
tached, Madam, — and I ’d die rather 
than not say so.” 

“ Je meurs oil je m’attache,” Mr. 
Holt said Avith a polite grin. “ The 
ivy says so in the picture, and clings 
to the oak like a fond parasite as 
it is.” 

“Parricide, sir ! ” cries Mrs. Tusher. 

“Hush, Tusher, — you are always 
bickering Avith Father Holt,” cried 
my Lady. “ Come and kiss my hand, 
child ” ; and the oak held out a 
branch to little Harry Esmond, Avho 
took and dutifully kissed the lean old 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


23 


hand, upon the gnarled knuckles of 
which thei'e glittered a hundred rings. 

“To kiss that hand would make 
many a pretty fellow happy ! ” cried 
Mrs. Tusher : on which my Lady cry- 
ing out, “ Go, you foolish Tusher ! ” 
and tapping her with her great fan, 
Tusher ran forward to seize her hand 
and kiss it. Fury arose and barked 
furiously at Tusher ; and Father 
Holt looked on at this queer scene, 
Avitli arch, grave glances. 

The aAve exhibited by the little boy 
perhaps pleased the lady to whom 
this artless flattery was bestowed ; for 
having gone doAvn on his knee {as 
Father Holt had directed him, and 
the mode then was) and performed 
his obeisance, she said, “ Page Es- 
mond, my groom of the chamber will 
inform you what your duties are, 
when you Avait upon my Lord and 
me; and good Father Holt Avill in- 
struct you as becomes a gentleman 
of our name. Y'ou Avill pay him obe- 
dience in CA'^erything, and I pray you 
may groAv to be as learned and as 
good as your tutor.” 

The lady seemed to have the great- 
est rcA'erence for Mr. Holt, and to be 
more afraid of him than of anything 
else in the Avorld. If she was ever so 
angry, a Avord or look from Father 
Holt made her calm : indeed he had 
a vast poAver of subjecting those Avho 
came near him ; and, among the rest, 
his ncAV pupil gave himself up Avith an 
entire confldence and attachment to 
the good Father, and became his 
Avilling slave almost from the first 
moment he saAV him. 

He put his small hand into the 
Father^s as he Avalked aAvay from his 
first presentation to his mistress, and 
asked many questions in his artless 
childish Avay. “ Who is that other 
Avoman ? ” he asked. “ She is fat 
and round ; she is more pretty than 
my Lady CastlcAvood.” 

“ She is Madam Tusher, the par- 
son’s Avife of CastlcAvood. She has a son 
of your age, but bigger than you.” 

“ Why does she like so to kiss my 
Lady’s hand. It is not good to kiss.” 


“ Tastes are different, little man. 
Madam Tusher is attached to my 
Lady, having been lier Avaiting-Avoman 
befoi'e she Avas married, in the old 
lord’s time. Slie married Doctor 
Tusher the chaplain. The English 
household divines often marry the 
Avaiting-Avomen.” 

“ You AA'ill not marry the French- 
woman, Avill you ? I saAv her 
laughing Avith Blaise in the buttery.” 

“ I belong to a church that is older 
and better than the English church,” 
Mr. Holt said (making a sign Avhere- 
of Esmond did not tlien understand 
the meaning, across his breast and 
forehead) ; “ in our church the clergy 
do not marry. You Avill understand 
these things better soon.” 

“ Was not Saint Peter the head of 
your church ? — Dr. Rabbits of Ealing 
told us so.” 

The Father said, “ Yes, he Avas.” 

“ But Saint Peter Avas married, for 
Ave heard only last Sunday that his 
Avife’s mother lay sick of a fcA’cr.” 
On Avhich the Father again laughed, 
and said he Avould understand this 
too better soon, and talked of other 
things, and took aAvay Harry Esmond, 
and shoAved him the great old house 
Avhich he had come to inhabit. 

It stood on a rising green hill, Avith 
woods behind it, in which Avere rooks’ 
nests, Avhere the birds at morning 
and returning home at evening made 
a great caAving. At the foot of the 
hill Avas a river, with a steep ancient 
bridge crossing it ; and beyond that 
a large pleasant green flat, Avherc the 
village of CastlcAVOod stood, and 
stands, Avith the church in the midst, 
the parsonage hard by it, the inn 
Avith the blacksmith’s forge beside it, 
and the sign of the “Three Castles” 
on the elm. The London road 
stretched aAvay tOAvards the rising 
sun, and to the Avest Avere SAvelling 
hills and peaks, behind Avhich many 
a time Harry Esmond saAV the same 
sun setting, that he noAV looks on 
thousands of miles away across the 
great ocean, — in a ncAv CastlcAv^ood, 
by another stream, that bears, like 


24 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ES3IOND. 


the new country of wandering 
^neas, the fond names of the land 
of his youth. 

The Hall of Castlewood was built 
with two courts, whereof one only, 
the fountain-court, was now inhabited, 
the other having been battered down 
in the Cromwellian wars. In the 
fountain-court, still in good repair, 
was the great hall, near to the kitchen 
and butteries. A dozen of living- 
rooms looking to the north, and 
communicating with the little chapel 
that faced eastwards and the build- 
ings stretching from that to the main 
gate, and with the hall (which looked 
to the west) into the court now 
dismantled. This court had been 
.the most magnificent of the tw'o, 
until the Protector’s cannon tore 
down one side of it before the place 
was taken and stormed. The be- 
siegers entered at the terrace under 
the clock-tower, slaying every man 
of the garrison, and at their head my 
Lord’s brother, Francis Esmond. 

The Restoration did not bring 
enough money to the Lord Castle- 
wood to restore this ruined part of 
his house ; where were the morning 
parlors, above them the long music- 
gallery, and before which stretched 
the garden-terrace, where, however, 
the flowers grew again which the 
boots of the Roundheads had trodden 
in their assault, and w'hich was 
restored without much cost, and only 
a little care, by both ladies who 
succeeded the second viscount in the 
government of this mansion. Round 
the terrace-garden was a low wall 
with a wicket leading to the w'ooded 
height beyond, that is called Crom- 
well’s Battery to this day. 

Young Harry Esmond learned the 
domestic part of his duty, which Avas 
easy enough, from the groom of her 
Ladyship’s chamber : serving the 
Countess, as the custom commonly 
was in his boyhood, as page, waiting 
at her chair, bringing her scented 
Avater and the silver basin after 
dinner, — sitting on her carriage-step 
on state occasions, or on public days 


introducing her company to her. 
This Avas chiefly of the Catholic 
gentry, of Avhom there Avere a pretty 
many in the country and neighboring 
city; and Avho rode not seldom to 
CastleAvood to partake of the hospi- 
talities there. In the second year of 
their residence, the company seemed 
especially to increase. My Lord and 
my Lady Avere seldom Avithout visit- 
ors, in Avhose society it Avas curious 
to contrast the difference of behavior 
between Father Holt, the director of 
the family, and Doctor Tusher, the 
rector of the parish, — Mr. Holt 
moving amongst the very highest 
as quite their equal, and as command- 
ing them all ; Avhile poor Doctor 
Tusher, Avhose position was indeed a 
difficult one, having been chaplain 
once to the Hall, and still to the Pro- 
testant servants there, seemed more 
like an usher than an equal, and 
i ahvays rose to go aAvay after the first 
course. 

Also there came in these times to 
Father Holt many private visitors, 
Avhom, after a little, Henry Esmond 
had little difficulty in recognizing as 
ecclesiastics of the Father’s persua- 
sion, whatever their dresses (and 
they adopted all) might be. These 
Avere closeted Avith the Father con- 
stantly, and often came and rode 
aAvay without paying their dcA^oirs to 
my Lord and Lady, — to the Lady 
and Lord rather, — his Lordship 
being little more than a cipher in 
the house, and entirely under his 
domineering partner. A little foAvl- 
ing, a little hunting, a great deal of 
sleep, and a long time at cards and 
table, carried through one day after 
another Avith his Lordship. When 
meetings took place in this second 
year, Avhich often Avould happen Avith 
closed doors, the page found my 
Lord’s sheet of paper scribbled OAer 
Avith dogs and horses, and ’t Avas said 
he had much ado to keep himself 
aAvake at these councils : the Countess 
ruling over them, and he acting as 
little more than her secretary. 

Father Holt began speedily to be so 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


25 


much occupied with these meetings as 
rather to neglect the education of the 
little lad who so gladly put himself 
under the kind priest’s orders. At 
first they read much and regularly, 
both in Latin and French ; the Fa- 
ther not neglecting in anything to im- 
press his faith upon his pupil, but not 
forcing violently, and treating him 
with a delicacy and kindness which 
surprised and attached the child, al- 
ways more easily won by these meth- 
ods than by any severe exercise of 
authority. And his delight in their 
walks was to tell Hany of the glories 
of his order, of its martyrs and heroes, 
of its Brethren converting the lieathen 
by myriads, traversing the desert, fa- 
cing the stake, ruling the courts and 
councils, or braving the tortures 
of kings ; so that Harry Esmond 
thought that to belong to the Jesuits 
was the greatest prize of life and 
bravest end of ambition ; the greatest 
career here, and in heaven the surest 
reward ; and began to long for the 
day, not only when he should enter 
into the one church and receive his 
first communion, but when he might 
join that wonderful brotherhooil, 
which was present throughout all the 
world, and which numbered the 
wisest, the bravest, the highest born, 
the most eloquent of men among its 
members. Father Holt bade him 
keep his views secret, and to hide 
them as a great treasure which would 
escape him if it was revealed ; and, 
proud of this confidence and secret 
vested in him, the lad became fondly 
attached to the master who initiated 
him into a mystery so wonderful and 
awful. And when little Tom Tusher, 
his neighbor, came from school for 
his holiday, and said how he, too, 
was to be bred up for an English 
priest, and would get. what he called 
an exhibition from his school, and 
then a college scholarship and fellow- 
ship, and then a good living, — it 
tasked young Harry Esmond’s powers 
of reticence not to say to his young 
companion, “ Church ! priesthood ! 
fat living ! My dear Tommy, do you 
2 


call yours a church and a priesthood 1 
What is a fat living compared to con- 
verting a hundred thousand heathens 
by a single sei’inou ? What is a 
scholarship at Trinity by the side of 
a crown of martyrdom, with angels 
awaiting you as your head is taken off 
Could your master at school sail over 
the Thames on his gown ? Have you 
statues in your church that can bleed, 
speak, walk, and cry? My good 
Tommy, in dear Father Holt’s church 
these things take place every day. 
You know Saint Philip of the Wil- 
lows appeared to Lord Castlcwood, 
and caused him to turn to the one 
true church. No saint? ever come 
to you.” And Harry Esmond, be- 
cause of his promise to Father Holt, 
hiding away these treasures of faith 
from T. Tusher, delivered himself of 
them nevertheless simply to Father 
Holt ; who stroked his head, smiled 
at him with his inscrutable look, and 
told him that he did well to meditate 
on these great things, and not to talk 
of them except under direction. 

— « — 

CHAPTER IV. 

I AM PLACED UNDER A POPISH 

PRIEST AND BRED TO THAT RE- 
LIGION. — VISCOUNTESS CASTLE- 

WOOD. 

Had time enough been given, and 
his childish inclinations been properly 
nurtured, Harry Esmond had been a 
Jesuit priest ere he was a dozen years 
older, and might have finished his 
days a martyr in China or a victim 
on Tower Hill : for, in the few months 
they spent together at Castlcwood, 
Mr. Holt obtained an entire mastery 
over the boy’s intellect and affections ; 
and had brought him to think, as in- 
deed Father Holt thought with all his 
heart too, that no life was so noble, 
no death so desirable, as that Avhich 
many brethren of his famous order 
Avere ready to undergoT By love, by 
a brightness of Avit and good-humor 
that charmed all, by an authority 


26 


THE HISTORY ’OF HENRY ESMOND. 


■\vliicli he knew how to assume, by a 
mystery and silence about him whicli 
increased the child’s rererence for him, 
he won Harry’s absolute fealty, and 
would have kept it, doubtless, if 
schemes greater and more important 
than a poor little boy’s admission into 
orders had not called him away. 

After being at home for a few 
months in tranquillity (if theirs might 
be called tranquillity, Avhich was, in 
truth, a constant bickering), my Lord 
and Lady left the country lor London, 
taking their director with them : and 
his little pupil scarce ever shed more 
bitter tears in his life than he did for 
nights after the first parting with his 
dear friend, as he lay in the lonely 
chamber next to that which the Father 
used to- occupy. He and a few do- 
mestics were left as the only tenants 
of the great house : and, though Har- 
ry sedulously did all the tasks which 
the Father set him, he had many 
hours unoccupied, and read in the li- 
brary, and bewildered his little brains 
with the great books he found there. 

After a while the little lad grew ac- 
customed to the loneliness of the 
place; and in after da^s remembered 
this part of his life as a period not un- 
happy. When the family was at Lon- 
don the whole of the establishment 
travelled thither with the exception 
of the porter — who was, moreover, 
brewer, gardener, and woodman — 
and his wife and children. These had 
their lodging in the gate-house hard 
by, with a door into the court ; and a 
window looking out on the green was 
the Chaplain’s room ; and next to 
this a small chamber Avhere Father 
Holt had his books, and Harry Es- 
mond his sleeping-closet. The side 
of the house facing the east had es- 
caped the guns of the Cromwellians, 
whose battery Avas on the height hi- 
eing the Avestern court; so that this 
eastern end bore fcAv marks of demoli- 
tion, saA'e in the chapel, Avhere the 
painted AvindoAvs surviving Edward 
the Sixth had been broken by tbe 
CommoiiAvealthmen. In Father Holt’s 
time little Harry Esmond acted as his 


familiar, and fiiithful little servitor j 
beating his clothes, folding his vest- 
ments, fetching Ids Avater from the 
Avell long before daylight, ready to 
run anyAvhere, for the service of his 
beloved priest. When the Father Avas 
aAA^ay, he locked his private chamber ; 
but the room Avhere the books Avere 
Avas left to little Harry, Avho, but for 
the society of this gentleman, Avas lit- 
tle less solitary Avhen Lord Castle- 
AA'Ood Avas at homo. 

The French Avit saith that a hero is 
none to his valet-de-diamhre, and it re- 
quired less quick eyes than my Lady’s 
little page Avas naturally endoAved 
Avith, to see that she had many quali- 
ties by no means heroic, hoAvcver much 
Mrs. Tusher might flatter and coax 
her. When Father Holt Avas not b}', 
Avho exercised an entire authority 
over the pair, my Lord and my Lady 
quarrelled and abused each other so 
as to make the servants laugh, and to 
frighten the little page on duty. The 
poor boy trembled before his mistress, 
Avho called him by a hundred ugly 
names, Avho made nothing of boxing 
his ears, and tilting the silver basin in 
his face Avhich it Avas his business to 
present to her after dinner. She hath 
repaired, by subsequent kindness to 
him, these seA^erities, Avhich it must be 
OAvned made his childhood A'ery un- 
happy. She Avas but unhappy her- 
self at this time, poor soul ! and I sup- 
pose made her dependants lead her 
OAvn sad life. I think my Lord Avas 
as much afraid of her as licr page Avas, 
and the only person of the liousebold 
Avho mastered her Avas Mr. Holt. 
Harry Avas only too glad Avhen the 
Father dined at table, and to slink 
aAvay and prattle Avith him aftei'Avards, 
or read Avith him, or Avalk Avith him. 
Luckily my Lady Viscountess did not 
rise till noon. Heaven help the poor 
Avaiting-Avoman Avho had charge of 
her toilet ! I have often seen the 
poor Avretch come out Avith red eyes 
from the closet Avhere those long and 
mysterious rites of her Ladyship’s 
dress AVere performed, and the back- 
gammombox locked up Avith a rap on 


THE HTSTOPvY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


27 


Mrs. Tuslier’s fingers when she played 
ill, or the game was going the wrong 
way. 

Hlcssed be the king who introduced 
cards, and the kind inventors of 
picpict and cribhage, for they employ- 
ed six hours at least of her Ladyship’s 
day, during which her family was 
pretty easy. Without this occupation 
iny Lady frequently declared she 
should die. Her dependants one 
after another relieved guard, — ’t was 
rather a dangerous post to i^lay with 
her Ladyship, — and took the cards 
turn about. Mr. Holt would sit with 
her at piquet during hours together, 
at which time she behaved herself 
properly ; and as for Dr. Tusher, I 
believe he would have left a parish- 
ioner’s dying bed, if summoned to 
ply a rubber with his patroness at 
Castlewood. Sometimes, when they 
were pretty comfortable together, my 
Lord took a hand. Besides these my 
Lady had her faithful poor ‘Tusher, 
and one, two, three gentlewomen 
whom Harry Esmond could recollect 
ill his time. They could not bear 
tliat genteel service very long ; one 
after another tried and failed at it. 
These and the housekeeper, and little 
Harry Esmond, had a table of their 
own. Poor ladies ! their life was far 
harder than the page’s. He was 
found asleep, tucked up in his little 
bed, whilst they were sitting by her 
Ladyship reading her to sleep, with 
the “ News Letter” or the “ Grand 
Cyrus.” My Lady used to have boxes 
of new plays from London, and Harry 
was forbidden, under the pain of a 
whipping, to look into them. I am 
afraid he deserved the penalty pretty 
often, and got it sometimes. Father 
Holt applied it twice or thrice, when 
he caught the young scapegrace with 
a delightful wicked comedy of Mr. 
Shadwell’s or Mr. Wycherley’s under 
his pillow. 

These, when he took any, were my 
Lord’s fuAmrite reading. But he was 
averse to much study, and, as his lit- 
tle page fancied, to much occupation 
of any sort. 


It always seemed to young Harry 
Esmond that my Lord treated him 
Avith more kindness Avheu his huly 
Avas not present, and Lord Castle- 
Avood would take the lad sometimes 
on his little journeys a-hunting or 
a-birding ; he loved to play at cards 
and tric-trac Avith him, Avhich games 
the boy learned to pleasure his lord : 
and Avas growing to like him better 
daily, showing a special pleasure if 
Father Holt gav'e a good report of 
him, patting him on the head, and 
promising that he would provide for 
the boy. However, in my Lady’s pres- 
ence, my Lord sho\AX‘d no such marks 
of kindness, and atfected to treat the 
lad roughly, and rebuked him sharply 
for little faults, for Avhich he in a 
manner asked pardon of young Es- 
mond Avhen they Avere private, saying 
if he did not speak roughly, she 
Avould, and his tongue Avas not such a 
bad one as his lady’s, — a point Avhere- 
of the boy, young as he Avas, Avas very 
Avell assured. 

Groat public ev'ents Avcrc happening 
all this Avhilc, of Avhich the simple 
young page took little count. But 
one day, riding into the neighboring 
town on the step of my Lady’s coach, 
his Lordship and she and Father Holt 
being inside, a great mob of people 
came hooting and jeering round the 
coach, baAvling out “ The Bishops for- 
CA^er ! ” “ Doavu Avith the Pope ! ” 

“ No Popery ! no Popery ! Jezebel, 
Jezebel ! ” so that my Lord began to 
laugh, my Lady’s eyes to roll Avith 
anger, for she Avas as bold as a lioness, 
and feared nobody ; whilst Mr. Holt, 
as Esmond saAv from his place on the 
step, sank back Avith rather an alarm- 
ed face, crying out to her Ladyship, 
“ For God’s sake, madam, do not 
speak or look out of AvindoAV ; sit still.” 
But she did not obey this prudent in- 
junction of the Father; she thrust 
her head out of the coach AvindoAv, 
and screamed out to the coachman, 
“ Flog your Avay through them, the 
brutes, James, and use your Avhip !” 

The mob ansAvered Avith a roaring 
jeer of laughter, and fresh cries of 


28 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


‘‘ Jezebel ! Jezebel ! ” My Lord only 
lauj^lied the more : he was a lan<;uid 
gentleman : nothing seemed to excite 
him commonly, though I have seen 
him cheer aiul lialloo tlie hounds very 
briskly, and his lace (which was gen- 
erally very yellow and calm) grow 
quite red and cheerful during a burst 
over the Downs after a liare, and 
laugh, and swear, and huzza at a 
cock-fight, of whicli sport-he was very 
fond. And now, Avhen the mob began 
to hoot his lady, he laughed with 
something of a mischievous look, as 
though he expected sport, and thought 
that she and they were a match. 

James the coachman was more 
afraid of his mistress than the mob, 
probably, for he whipped on his 
horses as he was bidden, and the post- 
boy that rode with the first pair (my 
Lady always rode with her coach-and- 
six) gave a cut of his thong over the 
shoulders of one fellow Avho put his 
hand out towards the leading horse’s 
rein. 

It was a market-day, and the coun- 
try-peo})lc were all assembled Avitli 
their baskets of poultry, eggs, and 
such things ; the postilion had no 
sooner lashed the man Avho would 
have taken hold of las horse, but a 
great cabbage came whirling like a 
bombsliell into the carriage, at which 
my Lord laughed more, for it knock- 
ed my Lady’s fan out of her hand, 
and plumped into Father Holt’s 
stomach. Then came a shower of 
carrots and potatoes. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, be still ! ” says 
Mr. Holt ; “ we are not ten paces 
from the ‘ Bell ’ arcliAvay, where they 
can shut the gates on us, and keep 
out this canaille” 

The little page was outside the 
coach on the step, and a felloAv in the 
crowd aimed a potato at him, and hit 
him in the eye, at which the poor lit- 
tle wretch set up a shout ; the man 
laughed, a great big saddler’s appren- 
tice of the town. “Ah! you d 

little yelling Popish bastard,” he 
said, and stooped to pick up another ; 
the crowd had gathered quite between 


the horses and in the inn door by this 
time, and the coach was brought to a 
dead stand-still. My Lord jumped as 
briskly aS a boy out of the door on 
his side of the coach, squeezing little 
Harry behind it ; had hold of the po- 
tato-throAver’s collar in an instant, 
and the next moment the brute’s 
heels Avere in the air, and he fell on 
the stones Avith a thump. 

“ You hulking coAvard ! ” says he; 
“ you pack of screaming blackguards ! 
how dare you attack cliildrcn, and in- 
sult Avomen ? Fling another shot at 
that carriage, you sneaking pigskin 
cobbler, and by the Lord I ’ll send my 
rapier through you ! ” 

Some of the mob cried, “ Huzza, 
my Lord!” for they kncAV him, and 
the saddler’s man Avas a knoAvn bruis- 
er, near tAvice as big as my Lord Vis- 
count. 

“Make Avay there,” says he ^le 
spoke in a high shrill voice, but Avitli 
a great air of authority). “Make 
way, and let her. Lady ship’s carriage 
pass.” The men that Avere betAveen 
the coach and the gate of the “ Bell ” 
actually did make Avay, and the 
horses AA’ent in, my Lord Avalking 
after them Avith his hat on his head. 

As he Avas going in at the gate, 
through Avbich the coach had just 
rolled, another cry begins, of “ No 
Popery — no Papists!” My Lord 
turns round and faces them once 
more. 

“ God saA'e the King ! ” says he at 
the highest pitch of his voice. “ Who 
dares abuse the King’s religion 1 

Y'ou, you d d psalm - singing 

cobbler, as sure as I’m a magistrate 
of this county I ’ll commit you ! ” 
The felloAV shrank back, and my 
Lord retreated Avith all the honors of 
the day. But Avhen the little flurry 
caused by the scene Avas over, and the 
flush passed off his face, he relapsed 
into his usual languor, trifled Avith 
his little dog, and yaAvned Avhen my 
Lady spoke to him. 

This mob Avas one of many thou- 
sands that Avere going about the 
country at that time, huzzaing for 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


29 


the acquittal of the seven bishops who 
had been tried just then, and about 
whom little Harry Esmond at that 
time knc^v scarce anything. It was 
Assizes at Hexton, and there was a 
great meeting of the gentry at the 
“ Bell ” ; ami my Lord’s people had 
their new liveries on, and Harry a 
little suit of bluc-and-silver, which he 
wore upon occasions of state; and 
the gentlefolks came round and talked 
to my Lord; and a judge in a red 
gown, Avho seemed a very great per- 
sonage, especially complimented liim 
and my Lady, who was mighty grand. 
Harry remembers her train borne up 
by her gentleAVoman. There Avas an 
assembly and ball at the great room 
at the “ Bell,” and other young gen- 
tlemen of the county families looked 
on as he did. One of them jeered 
him for his black eye, Avhich Avas 
SAvcllcd by the potato, and another 
called him a bastard, on Avhich he and 
Harry fell to fisticuffs. My 'Lord’s 
cousin, Colonel Esmond of Walcote, 
was there, and separated the tAVO lads, 
— a great tall gentleman, Avith a 
handsome good-natured face. The 
boy did not knoAV hoAV nearly in after 
life he should be allied to Colonel Es- 
mond, and hoAV much kindness he 
should have to oAve him. 

There Avas little love between the 
tAVO families. My Lady used not to 
spare Colonel Esmond in talking of 
him, for reasons Avhich have been 
hinted already; but about Avhich, at 
his tender age, Henry Esmond could 
be expected to knoAv nothing. 

Very soon afterwards, my Loi’d 
and Lady Avent to London Avith Mr. 
Holt, leaving, however, the page be- 
hind them. The little man had the 
great house of CastlcAvood to himself ; 
or betAveen him and the housekeeper, 
Mrs. Worksop, an old lady Avho Avas 
a kinsAvoman of the family in some 
distant Avay, and a Protestant, but a 
stanch Tory and king’s-man, as all 
the Esmonds Averc. He used to go to 
school to Dr. Tusher Avhen he Avas at 
home, though the Doctor Avas much 
occupied too. There Avas a great stir 


and commotion cveryAvhere, even in 
the little quiet village of CastleAvood, 
Avhither a party of people came from 
the tOAvn, Avho Avould haA’e broken 
CastleAvood Chapel AvindoAvs, but the 
village people turned out, and even 
old Sieveright, the republican black- 
smith, along Avith them ; for my Lady, 
though she Avas a Papist, and had 
many odd Avays, Avas kind to tlw 
tenantry, and there Avas ahvays a 
plenty of beef, and blankets, and 
medicine for the poor at CastleAvood 
Hall. 

A kingdom Avas changing hands 
Avhilst my Lord and Lady Avere aAvay. 
King James Avas Hying, the Dutch- 
men Avere coming ; aAvful stories 
about them and the Prince of Or- 
ange used old Mr. Worksop to tell to 
the idle little page. 

He liked the solitude of the great 
house very Avell ; he had all the play- 
books to read, and no Father Holt to 
Avhip him, and a hundred childish 
pursuits and pastimes, Avithout doors 
and within, Avhich made this time 
very pleasant. 

— « 

CHAPTER V. 

MY SUPERIORS ARE ENGAGED IN 

PLOTS FOR THE RESTORATION OB 

KING JAMES II. 

Not having been able to sleep, for 
thinking of some lines for eels Avhich 
he had placed the night before, the 
lad Avas lying in his little bed, Avait- 
ing for the hour AAdien the gate Avould 
be open, and he and his comrade, Job 
LockAvood, the porter’s son, might go 
to the pond and see Avhat fortune had 
brought them. At daybreak Job 
Avas to aAvaken him, but his -oavu 
eagerness for the sport had seiwed as 
a reveillez long since, — so long, that 
it seemed to him as if the day never 
Avould come. 

It miglit luiA^e been four o’clock 
Avhen he heard the door of the oppo- 
site chamber, the Chaplain’s room, 
open, and the voice of a man coughing 
in the passage. Harry jumped up, 


so 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


thinking for certain it was a robber, 
or hoping perhaps for a ghost, and, 
flinging open Ins own door, saw be- 
fore him the Chaplain’s door open, 
and a light inside, and a figure stand- 
ing in the doorway, in the midst of 
a great smoke which issued from the 
room. 

“ Who ’s there ? ” cried out the 
boy, who was of a good spirit. 

“ Si/e}itium ! ” whispered the other ; 
“ ’t is I, my lx)y ! ” and, holding his 
"Hand out, Harry had no difficulty in 
recognizing his master and friend, 
Father Holt. A curtain was over the 
window of the Chaplain’s room that 
looked to the court, and Harry saw 
that the smoke came from a great 
flame of papers which were burn- 
ing in a brazier when lie entered the 
Chaplain’s room. After giving a 
hasty greeting and blessing to the 
lad, who was charmed to see bis tu- 
tor, the Father continued the burn- 
ing of his papers, drawing them 
from a cupboard over the mantel- 
piece wall, which Harry had never 
seen before. 

Father Holt laughed, seeing the 
lad’s attention fixed at once on this 
hole. “ That is right, Harry,” he 
said; “faithful little famuli, see all 
and say nothing. You are faithful, I 
know.” 

“ I know I would go to the stake 
for you,” said Harry. 

“ I don’t want your head,” said the 
Father, patting it kindly; “all you 
have to do is to hold your tongue. 
Let us burn these papers, and say 
nothing to anybody. Should you 
like to read them ” 

Harry Esmond blushed, and held 
down his head ; he had looked as the 
fiict was, and without thinking, at the 
paper before him ; and though he had 
seen it, could not understand a word 
of it, the letters being quite clear 
enough, but quite without meaning. 
They i)urned the papers, beating 
down the ashes in a brazier, so that 
scarce any traces of them remained. 

Harry had been accustomed to see 
Father Holt in more dresses than one ; 


it not being safe, or worth the danger, 
for Popish ecclesiastics to wear their 
proper dress; and he was, in conse- 
quence, in no wise astonished that the 
priest should now appear before him 
in a riding-dress, 'with large butf 
leather boots, and a feather to his 
hat, plain, but such as gentlemen 
wore. * 

“ You know the secret of the cup- 
board,” said he, laughing, “ and must 
be prepared lor other mysteries ” ; 
and he opened — but not a secret cup- 
board this time — only a wardrobe, 
which he usually kept locked, and 
from which he now took out two or 
three dresses and perriujues of differ- 
ent colors, and a couple of swords of 
a pretty make (Father Holt was an 
expert practitioner with the small- 
sword, and every day, Avhilst he was 
at home, he and his puj^il practised 
this exercise, in which the lad became 
a very great proficient), a military 
coat and cloak, and a farmer’s smock, 
and placed them in the large hole 
over the mantel-picce from which the 
papers had been taken. 

“If they miss the cupboard,” he 
said, “they will not find these; if 
they find them, they ^11 tell no tales, 
except that Father Holt wore more 
suits of clothes than one. All Jesu- 
its do. You know what deeeivers Ave 
are, Harry.” 

Harry Avas alarmed at the notion 
that his friend Avas about to leaAC 
him; but “No,” the priest said, “I 
may A^ery likely come back Avith my 
Lord in a fcAv days. We arc to be 
tolerated ; Ave are not to be perse- 
cuted. But they may take a fancy to 
pay a A'isit at Castlcwood ere our re- 
turn ; and, as gentlemen of my cloth 
are suspected, they might choose to 
examine my papers, Avhich concern 
nobody — at least not tbem.” And 
to this day, Avhether the papers in 
cipher related to politics, or to the 
affairs of that mysterious- society 
whereof Father Holt Avas a member, 
his pupil, Harry Esmond, remains in 
entire ignorance. 

The rest of his goods, his small 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


31 


Wardrobe, &.C., Holt left untoucliecl 
on Ills shelves and in his cupboard, 
taking- down — with a laugh, how- 
ever — and flinging into the brazier, 
Avhere he only half burned them, 
some theological treatises which he 
had been writing against the Eng- 
lish divines. “ And now,’’ said he, 
“ Henry, my son, you may testify, 
with a safe conscience, that you saw 
me burning Latin sermons the last 
time I was here before I went away 
to London ", and it will bo daybreak 
directly, and I must be away before 
Lockwood is stirring.” 

“ Will not Lockwood let you out, 
sir ? ” Esmond asked. Holt laughed ; 
he was never more gay or good-hu- 
mored than Avhen in the midst of ac- 
tion or danger. 

“ Lockwood knows nothing of my 
being here, mind you,” he said ; “ nor 
would you, you little wretch ! had you 
slept better. You must forget that I 
have Ixjen here; and now farewell. 
Close the door, and go to your own 
room, and don’t eome out till — stay, 
why should you not know one secret 
more'? I know you will never be- 
tray me.” 

In the Chaplain’s room were two 
windows ; the one looking into the 
court facing westwards to the foun- 
tain; the other, a small casement 
strongly barred, and looking on to 
the green in front of the Hall. This 
window was too high to reach from 
the ground ; but, mounting on a buf- 
fet which stood beneath it, Eather 
Holt showed me how, by pressing on 
the base of the window, the whole 
framework of lead, glass, and iron 
stanchions descended into a cavity 
worked below, from which it could 
be drawn and restored to its usual 
lace from without; a broken pane 
eing purposely open to admit the 
hand whicli Avas to work iqjon the 
spring of the machine. 

‘‘ When I am gone,” Father Holt 
said, “you may push away the butfet, 
so tliat'no onenray fancy that an exit 
has been made that way; lock the 
door ; place the key — where shall Ave 


put the key ? — under ‘ Chrysostom ’ 
on the book-shelf ; and if any ask for 
it, say I keep it there, and told you 
Avhere to find it, if yon had need to* 
go to my room. The descent is easy 
doAvn the Avail into the ditch ; and so, 
once more farewell, until I sec thee 
again, my dear son.” And Avith this 
the intrepid Father mounted the buf- 
fet Avith great agility and briskness, 
stepped across the AvindoAv, lifting up 
the bars and framcAvork again from 
the other side, and only leavdng room 
for Harry Esmond to stand on tiptoe 
and kiss his hand before the casement 
closed, the bars fixing as firm as ever, 
seemingly, in the stone arch overhead. 
When Father Holt next arrived at 
Castlcwood, it Avas by the public gate 
on horseback ; and he never so much 
as alluded to the existence of the pri- 
vate issue to Harry, except -Avhen he 
had need of a private messenger from 
Avithin, for Avhich end, no doubt, he 
had instructed his young pupil in the 
means of quitting the Hall. 

Esmond, young as he Avas, AAmuld 
have died sooner than betray his 
friend and master, as Mr. Holt well 
kneAV ; for he had tried the boy more 
than once, putting temptations in his 
Avay, to see Avhether he Avould yield 
to them and confess aftei-Avards, or 
Avhether he Avould resist them, as he 
did sometimes, or Avhether he AA'ould 
lie, Avhich he ncA'er did. Holt in- 
structing the boy on this point, hoAv- 
ever, that if to keep silence is not to 
lie, as it certainly is not, yet silence 
is, after all, equivalent to a negation, 
and therefore a doAvnright No, in the 
interest of justice or your friend, and 
in re])ly to a question that may be 
prejudicial to either, is not criminal, 
but, on the contrary, praisCAVorthy ; 
and as laAvful a Avay as the other of 
eluding a Avrongful demand. For 
instance (says he), suppose a good 
citizen, avIio had seen his Majesty 
take refuge there, had been asked, 

“ Is King Charles up that oak-tree ? ” 
his duty Avould have been not to 
say, Yes, — so that the CroniAA'ellians 
should seize the king and murder 


32 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ES:M0ND. 


him like his father, — but No; his 
Majesty being private in tbe tree, 
and therefore not to be seen there by 
loyal eyes ; all whicli instruction, in 
religion and morals, as well as in the 
rudiments of the tongues and sciences, 
the boy took eagerly and with grati- 
tude from his tutor. When, then, 
Holt was gone, and told Harry not 
to see him, it was as if he had never 
been. And he had this answer pat 
Avhen he came to be questioned a few 
days after. 

The Prince of Orange was then at 
Salisbury, as young Esmond learned 
from seeing Doctor Tusher in his 
best cassock (though the roads were 
muddy, and he never was known to 
wear his silk, only his stuff one, a- 
horseback), witli a great orange cock- 
ade in his broad-leafed hat, and Na- 
hum, his clerk, ornamented with a 
like decoration. The Doctor was 
walking up and down in front of his 
parsonage, when little Esmond saw 
him, and heard him say he was going 
to pay his duty to his Highness the 
Prince, as he mounted his pad and 
rode away Avith Nahum behind. The 
village people had orange cockades 
too, and his friend the blacksmith’s 
laughing daughter pinned one into 
Harry’s old hat, which he tore out 
indignantly Avhen they bade him to 
cry “ God save the Prince of Or- 
ange and the Protestant religion ! ” 
but the people only laughed, lor they 
liked the boy in the village, Avhere 
his solitary condition moved the gen- 
eral pity, and where he found friendly 
welcomes and faces in many houses, 
father Holt had many friends there 
too, for he not only Avould fight the 
blacksmith at theology, never losing 
his temper, but laughing the Avhole 
time in his pleasant Avay ; but he 
cured him of an ague with quinquina, 
and was always ready Avith a kind 
Avord for any man that asked it, so 
that they said in the village ’t Avas a 
pity the tAvo Avere Papists. 

The Director and the Vicar of 
CastlcAvood agreed very avcII ; indeed, 
the former Avas a perfectly bred gen- 


tleman, and it AA'as the latter’s busi- 
ness to agree Avith everybody. Doc- 
tor Tusher and the lady’s maid, his 
spouse, had a boy Avho Avas about the 
age of little Esmond ; and tlicrc Avas 
such a friendsliip between the lads, as 
propinquity and tolerable kindness 
and good-humor on cither side Avould 
be pretty sure to occasion. Tom 
Tusher Avas sent off early, lioAveA'cr, 
to a school in London, Avhithcr his 
father took him and a volume of ser- 
mons, in the first year of the reign 
of King James ; and Tom returned 
but once, a year afterwards, to Castlc- 
Avood for many years of his scholas- 
tic and collegiate life. Thus there 
Avas less danger to Tom of a ])crver- 
sion of his faith by the Director, Avho 
scarce ever saAV him, than there Avas 
to Harry, Avho constantly Avas in the 
Vicar’s company ; but as long as 
Harry’s religion Avas his Majesty’s, 
and my Lord’s, and ray Lady’s, the 
Doctor said gravely, it should not be 
for him to disturb or disquiet him : 
it Avas far from him to say that his 
Majesty’s Church Avas not a branch 
of the Catholic Church; upon which 
Father Holt used, according to his cus- 
tom, to laugh, and say that the Holy 
Church throughout all the Avorld, 
and the noble Army of Martyrs, 
were very much obliged to the Doc- 
tor, 

It Avas Avhile Dr. Tusher Avas away 
at Salisbury that there came a troop 
of dragoons Avith orange scarfs, and 
quartered in CastlcAvood, and some 
of them came up to the Hall, Avhere 
they took possession, robbing nothing 
hoAvever beyond the hen-house and 
tbe beer-cellar; and only insisting 
upon going through the house and 
looking for papers. The first room 
they asked to look at Avas Father 
Holt’s room, of Avhich Harry Esmond 
brought the key, and they opened 
the draAvers and the cupboards, and 
tossed oA’er the papers and clothes, — 
but found nothing except his books 
and clothes, and the vestments in a 
box by themselves, Avith Avhich the 
dragoons made merry, to Harry Es- 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


33 


monel’s horror. And to the questions 
which the gentleman put to Harry, 
lie replied that Father Holt was a 
very kind man to him, and a very 
learned man, and Harry supposed 
would tell him none of his secrets if 
he had any. He was about eleven 
years old at this time, and looked as 
innocent as boys of his age. 

The fiimily were away more than 
six months, and when they returned 
they were in the deepest state of de- 
jection, for King James had been 
banished, the Prince of Orange was 
on the throne, and the direst persecu- 
tions of those of the Catholic faith 
were apprehended by my Lady, who 
said she did not believe that there 
was a Avord of truth in the promises 
of toleration that Dutch monster 
made, or in a single Avord the per- 
jured Avretch said. My Lord and 
Lady Avere in a manner prisoners in 
their own house ; so her Ladyship 
gave the little page to knoAvg who 
Avas by this time growing of an age 
to understand Avhat Avas passing about 
him, and something of the characters 
of the people he lived Avith. 

“ We are prisoners,” says she ; “in 
everything but chains, Ave are prison- 
ers. Let them come, let them con- 
sign me to dungeons, or strike off my 
head from this poor little throat ” 
(and she clasped it in her long lin- 
gers). “ The blood of the Esmonds 
will ahvays flow freely for their kings. 
AVe are not like the Churchills — the 
Judases Avho kiss their master and 
betray him. AVe knoAV how to suffer, 
how even to forgive in the royal 
cause ” (no doubt it was to that fatal 
business of losing the place of Groom 
of the Posset to Avhich her Ladyship 
alluded, as she did half a dozen times 
in the day). “Let the tyrant of 
Orange bring his raek and his odious 
Dutch tortures, — the beast ! the 
Avretch ! I spit upon him and defy 
him. Cheerfully Avill I lay this head 
upon the block; cheerfully Avill I ac- 
company my Lord to the scaffold : 
Ave Avill cry, ‘ God save King James ! ’ 
Avivh our dying breath, and smile Jn 


the face of the executioner.” And 
she told her page, a hundred times at 
least, of the particulars of the last in- 
tervieAV Avhich she had Avith'his Maj- 
esty. 

“ I flung myself before my Liege’s 
feet,” she said, “ at Salisbury. I de- 
voted myself — my husband — my 
house, to his cause. Perhaps he re- 
membered old times, Avhen Isabella 
Esmond Avas young and fair ; per- 
haps he recalled the day Avhen ’t Avas 
not I that knelt — at least he spoke 
to me Avith a voice that reminded me 
of days gone by. ‘ Egad ! ’ said his 
Majesty, ‘ you should go to the Prince 
of Orange, if you Avant anything.’ 
‘ No, sire,’ I replied, ‘ I Avould not 
kneel to a Usurper ; the Esmond that 
AvoLild haA'e served your Majesty Avill 
never be groom to a traitor’s posset.’ 
The royal exile smiled, even in the 
midst of his misfortune ; he deigned 
to raise me Avith Avords of consolation. 
The Viseount, my husband, himself, 
could not be angry at the august sa- 
lute Avith Avhich he honored me ! ” 

The public misfortune had the ef- 
fect of making my Lord and his lady 
better friends than they ever had been 
since their courtship. My Lord Vis- 
count had shoAvn both loyalty and 
spirit Avhen these were rare qualities 
in the dispirited party about the 
King ; and the praise he got elevated 
him not a little in his Avife’s good 
opinion, and perhaps in his OAvn. He 
Avakened up from the listless and su- 
pine life Avhich he had been leading ; 
Avas always riding to and fro in con- 
sultation Avith this friend or that of 
the King’s ; the page of course know- 
ing little of his doings, but remarking 
only his greater cheerfulness and al- 
tered demeanor. 

Father Holt came to the Hall con- 
stantly, but officiated no longer open- 
ly as Chaplain ; he Avas always fetch- 
ing and carrying ; strangers, military 
and ecclesiastic ( Harry kncAv the lat- 
ter, though they came in all sorts of 
disguises), Avere continually arriving 
and departing. My Lord made long 
absences and sudden reappearances, 
c 


34 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


tisin" sometimes the means of exit 
which Father Holt had employed, 
though how often the little window 
in the Chaplain’s room let in or let out 
my Lord and his friends, Harry could 
not tell. He stoutly kept his promise 
to the Father of not prying, and if at 
midnight from his little room he 
heard noises of persons stirring in the 
next chamber, he turned round to 
the wall, and hid his curiosity under 
his pillow until it fell asleep. Of 
course he could not help remarking 
that the priest’s journeys were con- 
stant, and understanding by a hun- 
dred signs that some active though 
secret business employed him : what 
this was may pretty well be guessed 
by what soon happened to my Lord. 

No garrison or watch was put into 
Castlewood when my Lord came 
back, but a Guard was in the village ; 
and one or other of them was always 
on the Green keeping a lookout on 
our great gate, and those who went 
out and in. Lockwood said that at 
night especially every person Avho 
came in or went out was watched by 
the outlying sentries. ’T was lucky 
that we had a gate which their Wor- 
ships knew nothing about. My Lord 
and Father Holt must have made 
constant journeys at night : once or 
twice little Harry acted as their mes- 
senger and discreet little aide-de-camp. 
He remembers he was bidden to go in- 
to the village with his fishing-rod, en- 
ter certain houses, ask for a drink of 
water, and tell the good man, “ There 
would be a horse-market at Newbury 
next Thursday,” and so carry the 
same message on to the next house on 
his list. 

He did not know what the message 
meant at the time, nor what was hap- 
pening : which may as well, however, 
for clearness’ sake, be explained here. 
The Prince of Orange being gone to 
Ireland, where the King was ready to 
meet him with a great army, it was 
determined that a great rising of his 
Majesty’s party should take place in 
this country ; and my Lord was to 
head the force in our county. Of late 


he had taken a greater lead in affairs 
than before, having the indefatigable 
Mr. Holt at his elbow, and my Lady 
Viscountess strongly urging him on ; 
and my Lord Sark being in the 
Tower a prisoner, and Sir Wilmot 
Crawley, of Queen’s Crawley, having 
gone over to the Prince of Orange’s 
side, — my Lord became the most con- 
siderable person in our part of the 
county for the affairs of the King. 

It was arranged that the n giment 
of Scots Greys and Dragoons, then 
quartered at IsTwbury, should declare 
for the King on a certain day, when 
likewise the gentry affected to his 
Majesty’s cause were to come in with 
their tenants and adherents to New- 
bury, march upon the Dutch troops 
at Reading under Ginckcl ; and, these 
overthrown, and their indomitable 
little master away in Ireland, ’t was 
thought that our side might move on 
London itself, and a confident victory 
was predicted for the King. 

As these great matters were in agi- 
tation, my Lord lost his listless man- 
ner and seemed to gain healtli ; my 
Lady did not scold him, Mr. Holt 
came to and fro, busy always ; and 
little Harry longed to have been a few 
inches taller, that he might draw a 
sword in this good cause. 

One day, it must have been about 
the month of July, 1690, my Lord, in 
a great horseman’s coat, under which 
Harry could see the shining of a steel 
breastplate he had on, called little 
Harry to him, put the hair off the 
child’s forehead, and kissed him, and 
bade God bless him in such an affec- 
tionate way as he never had used be- 
fore. Father Holt blessed him too, 
and then they took leave of my Lady 
Viscountess, who came from her 
apartment with a pocket-handkerchief 
to her eyes, and her gentlewoman and 
Mrs. Tusher supporting her. “ Y'ou 
are going to — to ride,” says she. 

“ 0 that I might come too !— ^ but in 
my situation I am forbidden horse ex- 
erci.se.” 

“ We kiss my Lady Marchioness’s 
hapd,” says Mr. Holt. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


35 


“ My Lord, God speed you ! ” she 
said, stepping up and embracing my 
Lord in a grand manner. “ Mr. Holt, 
I ask your blessing ” ; and she knelt 
down for that, whilst Mrs. Tusher 
tossed her head up. 

Mr. Holt gave the same benediction 
to the little page, who went down and 
held my Lord’s stirrups for him to 
mount; there were two servants wait- 
ing there too, — and they rode out of 
Castlewood gate. 

As they crossed the bridge, Harry 
could see an officer in scarlet ride up 
touching his hat, and address my 
Lord. 

The party stopped, and came to 
some parley or discussion, which 
presently ended, my Lord putting his 
horse into a canter after taking off his 
hat and making a bow to the officer, 
who rode alongside him step for step : 
the trooper accompanying him falling 
back, and riding with my Lords’ two 
men. They cantered over the Green, 
and behind the elms (my Lord waving 
his hand, Harry thought), and so they 
disappeared. That evening we had a 
great panic, the cow-boy coming at 
milking-time riding one of our horses, 
which he had found grazing at the 
outer park-wall. 

All night my Lady Viscountess 
Avas in a very quiet and subdued 
mood. She scarce found fault with 
anybody ; she played at cards for six 
hours; little page Esmond went to 
sleep. He prayed for my Lord and 
the good cause before closing his 
eyns. 

It was quite in the gray of the 
morning Avhen the porter’s bell rang, 
and old Lock^vood, waking up, let in 
one of my Lord’s servants, who had 
gone with him in the morning, and 
who returned Avith a melancholy sto- 
ry. The officer Avho rode up to my 
Lord had, it appeared, said to him, 
tliat it Avas his duty to inform his 
Lordship that he Avas not under ar- 
rest, but under surveillance, and to 
request him not to ride abroad that 
day. 

]\Iy Lord replied that riding Avas 


' good for his health, that if the Cap- 
tain chose to accompany him he Avas 
Avelcome ; and it Avas then that he 
made a bow, and they cantered away 
togetlier. 

When he came on to Wansey 
Down, my Lord all of a sudden 
pulled up, and the party came to a 
halt at the cross-Avay. 

“ Sir,” says he to the officer, “ \vg 
are four to two ; Avill you be so kind as 
to take that road, and leave me to go 
mine 1 ” 

“ Your road is mine, my Lord,” 
says the officer. 

“ Then — ” says my Lord ; but he 
had no time to say more, for the offi- 
cer, drawing a pistol, snapped it at 
his Lordship ; as at the same moment 
Eather Holt, drawing a pistol, shot 
the officer through the head. It Avas 
done, and the man dead in an in- 
stant of time. The orderly, gazing 
at the officer, looked scared for a 
moment, and galloped away for his 
life. 

“ Eire ! fire ! ” cries out Eather 
Holt, sending another shot after the 
trooper, but the two servants Avere too 
much surprised to use their pieces, 
and my Lord calling to them to hold 
their hands, the felloAV got aAvay. 

“ Mr. Holt, qui pensait a tout,” says 
Blaise, “ gets off his horse, examines 
the pockets of the dead officer for 
papers, gives his money to us tAvo, 
and says, ‘ The Avine is draAvn, M. le 
Marquis,’ — Avhy did he say Marquis 
to M. le Vieomte 1 — ‘ Ave must drink 
it.” 

“ The poor gentleman’s horse Avas 
a better one than that I rode,” Blaise 
continues ; “ Mr. Holt bids me get 
on him, and so I gave a cut to White- 
foot, and she trotted home. We rode 
on tOAvards Newbury ; AA^e heard firing 
tOAvards midday : at tAvo o’clock a 
horseman comes up to us as AA^e Avere 
giving our cattle Avater at an inn, — 
and says, “ All is done ! The Ecos- 
sais declared an hour too soon, — 
General Ginckel Avas doAvn Aipon 
them.” The whole thing was at an 
end. 


36 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


“‘And we’ve shot an officer on 
duty, and let his orderly escape/ says 
iny Lord. 

“ ‘ Blaise/ says Mr. Holt, writing 
two lines on his table-book, one for 
niy Lady, and one for yon, IMaster 
Harry ; ‘ you must go back to Castle- 
wood, and* deliver these,’ and behold 
me.” 

And he gave Harry the two papers. 
He read that to himself, which only 
said, “ Burn tlie papers in the cup- 
board, burn this. You know noth- 
ing about an^'thing.” Harry read 
this, ran up stairs to his mistress’s 
apartment, where her gentlewoman 
slept near to the door, made her 
bring a light and wake my Lady, 
into Avhose hands he gave the paper. 
She was a Avonderful object to look 
at in her night attire, nor had Harry 
ever seen the like. 

As soon as she had the paper in 
her hand, Harry stepped back to the 
Chaplain’s room, opened the secret 
cupboard over the fireplace, burned 
all the papers in it, and, as he 
had seen the priest do before, took 
down one of his Reverence’s manu- 
script sermons, and half burnt that in 
the brazier. By the time the papers 
were quite destroyed it ivas daylight. 
Hany ran back to his mistress again. 
Her gentlewoman ushered him again 
into her Ladyship’s chamber ; she 
told him (from behind her nuptial 
curtains) to bid the coach be got 
ready, and that she would ride away 
anon. 

But the mysteries of her Lady- 
ship’s toilet were as awfully long cm 
this day as on any other, and, long 
after the coach was ready, my Lady 
Avas still attiring herself And just 
as the Viscountess stepped forth from 
her room, ready for departure, young 
Jol) LockAvood comes running up 
from the village Avith ncAvsthat ahiAv- 
yer, three officers, and twenty orfour- 
and-tAventy soldiers, Averc marching 
thence upon the house. Job had but 
tAvo minutes the start of them, and, 
ere he had Avell told his story, the 
troop rode into our court-yard. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE ISSUE OF TUB PLOTS. — THE 
DEATH OF THOMAS, THIKD VIS- 
COUNT OF CAST LEW OOD ; AND 
THE IMPRISONMENT OF HIS VIS- 
COUNTESS. 

At first my Lady Avas for dying 
like Mary, Queen of Scots (to Avliom 
she fancied she bore a resemblance in 
beauty), and, stroking her scraggy 
neck, said, “ They Avill find Isabel of 
CastlcAvood is equal to her fate.” 
Her gentlcAvoman, Victoirc, persuad- 
ed her that her prudent course Avas, 
as she could not fiy, to receive the 
troops as though she suspected noth- 
ing, and that her chamber Avas the 
best place Avherein to aAvait them. 
So her black Japan casket, Avhicli 
Harry Avas to carry to the coach, Avas 
taken back to her Ladyship’s cham- 
ber, Avhither the maid and mistress 
retired. Victoire came out prcsentl^q 
bidding the page to say her Ladyship 
Avas ill, confined to her bed Avith the 
rheumatism. 

By this time the soldiers had reach- 
ed CastleAvood. Harry Esmond saAv 
them from the AvindoAv of the tapestry 
parlor; a couple of sentinels Avere 
posted at the gate, — a half-dozen 
more A\\alked tOAvards the stable ; and 
some others, preceded by their com- 
mander, and a man in black, a laAvyer 
probably, Avere conducted by one of 
the servants to the stair leading up to 
the ])art of the house Avhich my Lord 
and Lady inhabited. 

So the Captain, a handsome kind 
man, and the hvAvyer, came through 
the anteroom to the tapestry parlor, 
Avhere noAV Avas nobody but young 
Harry Esmond, the page. 

“ Tell your mistress, little man,” 
says the Captain, kindly, “ that Avb 
must speak to her.” 

“ My mistress is ill abed,” said the 
page, 

“ What complaint has she 1 ” asked 
the Caj)tain. 

The hoy said, “ The rheumatism ! ” 

“ Rheumatism ! that’s a sad com- 
plaint,” continues the good-natured 


THE HISTOEY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


37 


Captain ; “ and the coach is in the 
yard to fetch the Doctor, I sup- 
pose ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” says the hoy. 

“And liow loii" has her Ladyship 
been ill 

“ I don’t know,” says the hoy. 

“ When did my Lord go away 1 ” 

“ Yesterday night.” 

“ With Father Holt 1 ” 

“ With Mr. Holt.” 

“ And which way did they travel ? ” 
asks the lawyer. 

“ They travelled without me,” says 
the page. 

“ We must see Lady Castlewood.” 

“I have orders that nobody goes 
in to her Ladyship, — she is sick,” 
says the page : but at this moment 
Victoirc came out. “ Hush ! ” says, 
she ; and, as if not knowing that any 
one was near, “ What ’s this noise ? ” 
says she. “ Is this gentleman the 
Doctor ? ” 

“ Stuff! we must see Lady Castle- 
wood,” says the lawyer, pushing by. 

The curtains of her Ladyship’s 
room were down, and the chamber 
dark, and she was in bed with a night- 
cap on her head, and ])ropped up by 
her pillows, looking none the less 
ghastly because of the red which was 
still on her cheeks, and which she 
could not afford to forego. 

“ Is that the Doctor J ” she said. 

“ There is no use with this decep- 
tion, Madam,” Captain Westbury 
said (for so was he named). “ My 
duty is to arrest the person of Thom- 
as, Viscount Castlewood, a nonjuring 
peer, — of Robert Tusher, Vicar of 
Castlewood, — and Henry Holt, 
known under various other names 
and designations, a Jesuit priest, who 
officiated as chaplain here in the late 
king’s time, and is now at the head 
of tlie conspiracy which was about to 
break out in this country against 
the authority of their Majesties King 
William and Queen Mary, — and my 
orders are to search the house for 
such papers or traces of the conspira- 
cy as may be found hdre. Your Lady- 
ship will please to give me your keys. 


and it will be as well for yourself 
that you should help us, in every 
way, in our search.” 

“ You see, sir, that I have the 
rheumatism, and cannot move,” said 
the lady, looking xincommonly ghast- 
ly as she sat up in her bed, where, 
however, she had had her cheeks 
painted, and a new cap put on, so 
that she might at least look her best 
when the officers came. 

“ I shall take leave to place a sen- 
tinel in the chamber, so that your 
Ladyship, in case you should wish to 
rise, may have an arm to lean on,” 
Captain AVestbury said. “ Your 
wornan will sliow me where I am 
to look ” ; and Madame Victoire, 
chattering in her half French and 
half English jargon, opened while the 
Captain examined one drawer after 
another ; but, as Harry Esmond 
thought, rather carelessly, with a smile 
on his face, as if he was only con- 
ducting the examination for form’s 
sake. 

Before one of the cupboards Yic- 
toire flung herself down, stretching 
out her arms, and, with a piercing 
shriek, cried, “Non, jamais, monsieur 
I’officier ! Jamais ! I Avill rather die 
than let you see this wardrobe.” 

But Captain Westbury would open 
it, still with a smile on his face, which, 
when the box was opened, turned into 
a fair burst of laTightcr. It con- 
tained — not papers regarding the 
conspiracy — but my Lady’s wigs, 
washes, and rouge-pots, and Victoire 
said men were monsters, as the Cap- 
tain went on with his perquisition. 
He tapped the back to see whether 
or no it was hollow, and as he thrust 
his hands into the cupboard, my Lady 
from her bed called out, with a voice 
that did not .sound like that of a very 
sick woman, “ Is it your commission 
to insult ladies as well as to arrest 
gentlemen. Captain ? ” 

“ These articles are only dangerous 
when worn by your Ladyship,” the 
Captain said, with a low bow, and a 
mock grin of politeness. “ I have 
found nothing which concerns the 


38 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


Government as yet — only the wcap- 
0113 with which beauty is authorized 
to kill, ” says he, pointing to a ivig 
with his sword-tip. “ AVe must now 
proceed to search the rest of the 
house.” 

“ You arc not going to leave that 
wretch in the room with me, ” cried 
my Lady, pointing to the soldier. 

“ What can 1 do. Madam ? !Somc- 
hody you must have to smooth your 
pillow and bring your medicine — per- 
mit me — ” 

“ Sir ! ” screamed out my Lady. 

“ Madam, if you are too ill to leave 
the bed,” the Cajitain then said, rath- 
er sternly, “ I must have in four of my 
men to lift you off in the sheet. I 
must examine this bed, in a word ; 
papers may be hidden in a bed as 
elsewhere ; we know that very well 
and ...” 

Here it was her Ladyship’s turn to 
shriek, for the Captain, with his fist 
shaking the pillows and bolsters, at 
last came to “burn” as they say in 
the play of forfeits, and wrenching 
away one of the pillows, said, “ Look ! 
did not I tell you so 1 Here is a pil- 
low* stuffed with paper.” 

“ Some villain has betrayed ns,” 
cried out my Lady, sitting up in the 
bed, showing herself full dressed un- 
der her night-rail. 

“ And now your Ladyship can 
move, I am sure ; permit me to give 
you my hand to rise. Y’ou ivill have 
to travel for some distance, as far as 
Hexton Castle to-night. Will you 
have your coach ? Y'our Avoman 
shall attend you if you like — and 
the jajian box ”? ” 

“ Sir ! you don’t strike a man when 
he is down,” said my Lady, with 
some dignity : “ can you not spare a 
Avoman ? ” 

“ Your Ladyship must please to 
rise, and let me search the bed,” said 
the Captain ; “ there is no more time 
to lose in bandying talk.” 

And, Avithout more ado, the gaunt 
old Avoman got up. Harry Esmond 
recollected to the end of his life that 
figure, Avith the brocade dress and the 


Avhite night-rail, and the gold-clocked 
red stockings, and Avhite red-heeled 
shoes, sitting up in the bed, and step- 
ping doAvn from it. The trunks A^■erc 
ready packed for departure in her 
anteroom, and the horses ready har- 
nessed in the stable : about all Avhich 
the Captain seemed to knoAV, by in- 
formation got from some quarter or 
other; and Avhence Esmond could 
make a })retty shrewd guess in after 
times, Avhen J)r. Tushcr complained 
that King William’s government had 
basely treated him for services done 
in that cause. 

And here he may relate, though he 
Avas then too young to knoAV all that 
Avas happening, Avhat the papers con- 
tained, of Avhich Captain Westbury 
liad made a seizure, and Avhich papers 
had been transferred from the jaj)an 
box to the bed Avhen the officers ar- 
rived. 

There Avas a list of gentlemen 
of the county in Father Holt’s 
handAvriting, — Mr. Erceraan’s (King 
James’s) friends, — a similar paper 
being found among those of Sir John 
FcuAvick and Mr. Coplestone, Avho 
suffered death for this conspiracy. 

There Avas a patent conferring the 
title of Marquis of Esmond on my 
Lord CastleAvood and the heirs male 
of his body ; his appointment as 
Lord-Lieutenant of the County, and 
Major-General.* 

There Avere various letters from the 
nobility and gentry, some ardent and 
some cloubtful, in the King’s service ; 
and (very luckily for him) tAAo letters 
concerning Colonel Francis Esmond ; 
one from Father Holt, Avhich said, 

* To have this rank of Marquis restored in 
the family had always been my Lady A’is- 
countess’s ambition *, and her old maiden 
aunt, Barbara Topham, the goldsmith’s 
daughter, dying about this time, and leaving 
all her property to Lady Castlewood, I have 
heard that her Ladyship sent almost the 
whole of the money to King James, a pro- 
ceeding which so irritated my Lord Castle- 
wood that he actually went to the parish 
church, and was only appeased by the Mar- 
quis’s title which hi* exiled Majesty sent to 
him in return for the £ 15,000, his faithful 
subject lent him. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


39 


“ I have been to see this Colonel at 
Ills house at Walcote, near to Wells, 
•where he resides since the King’s de- 
parture, and pressed him very eager- 
ly in Mr. Freeman’s cause, showing 
him the great advantage he would 
have by trading with that merchant, 
offering him large premiums there as 
agreed between us. But he says no : 
he considers Mr. Freeman the head 
of the firm, will never trade against 
him or embark with any other trad- 
ing company, but considers his duty 
was done when Mr. Freeman left 
England. This Colonel seems to 
care more for his wife and his beagles 
than for artairs. He asked me much 
about youn^ H. E., ‘ that bastard,’ as 
he called him ; doubting my Lord’s 
intentions respecting him. I reas- 
sured him on this head, stating what 
I knew of the lad, and our intentions 
respecting him, but with regard to 
Freeman he was inflexible.” 

And another letter was from Colo- 
nel Esmond to his kinsman, to say 
that one Captain Holton had been 
with him offering him large bribes to 
join, you knoiu who, and saying that 
the head of the house of Castlewood 
was deeply engaged in that quarter. 
But for his part be had broke his 
sword when the K. left t!ie country, 
and ^^^ouId never airain fight in that 
quarrel. The P. of O. was a man, at 
least, of a noble courage, and his duty, 
and, as he thought, every English- 
man’s, Avas to keep the country quiet, 
and the French out of it: and, in 
fine, that he Avould have nothing to 
do Avith the scheme. 

Of the existence of these tAvo letters 
and the contents of the pilloAAg Colonel 
Frank Esmond, Avho became Viscount 
Castlewood, told Henry Esmond 
afterwards, Avhen the letters Avere 
showm to his Lordship, Avho congrat- 
ulated himself, as he had good reason, 
that he had not joined in the scheme 
Avhich proved so fatal to many con- 
cerned in it. But, naturally, the lad 
knew little about these circumstances 
Avhen they happened under his eyes ; 
only being aAvare that his patron and 


his mistress Avcrc in some trouble, 
Avhich had caused the flight of the one 
and the apprehension of the other by 
the officers of King William. 

The seizure of the papers effected, 
the gentlemen did not pursue their 
further search through CastlcAvood 
House A'ery rigorously. They exam- 
ined Mr, Holt’s room, being led 
thither by his pupil, Avho showed, as 
the Father had bidden him, the place 
Avhere the key of his chamber lay, 
opened the door for the gentlemen, 
and conducted them into the room. 

When the gentlemen came to the 
half-burned papers in the brazier, they 
examined them eagerly enough, and 
their young guide Avas a little amused 
at their perplexity. 

“ What arc these ? ” says one. 

“ They ’re Avritten in a foreign lan- 
guage,” says the lawyer. “ What 
are you laughing at, little Avhelp ? ” 
adds he, turning round as he saw the 
boy smile, 

“ Mr. Holt said they AA^erc sermons,” 
Harry said, “ and bade me to burn 
them ” ; Avhich indeed Avas true of 
those papers. 

“ Sermons indeed — it ’s treason, I 
Avould lay a Avager,” cries the laAv- 
ycr. 

“ Egad ! it ’s Greek to me,” says 
Captain Westbury. “ Can you read 
it, little boy ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, a little,” Harry said. 

“ Then read, and read in English, 
sir, on your peril,” said the hnvyer. 
And Harry began to translate : — 

“ Hath not one of your own Avriters 
said, ‘ The children of Adam are noAV 
laboring as much as he himself CA^er 
did, about the tree of the knoAvledge 
of good and evil, shaking the boughs 
thereof, and seeking the fruit, being 
for the most part unmindful of the 
tree of life.’ O blind generation ! ’t 
is this tree of knoAvledge to Avhich the 
serpent has led yon ” — and here the 
boy was obliged to stop, the rest of the 
page being charred by the fire : and 
asked of the hxAvyer, — “Shall I go 
on, sir ? ” 

The laAvyer said, — “This boy is 


40 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


deeper than he seems ; who knows 
that he is not laughing at us 1 ’’ 

“ Let 's have in Dick the Scholar,” 
cried Captain Westbury, laughing : 
and he called to a trooper out of tlic 
window, — “ Ho, Dick, come in here 
and construe.” 

A thick-set soldier, with a square 
good-humored face, came in at the 
summons, saluting his officer. 

“ Tell us what is this, Dick,” says 
the lawyer. 

“ My name is Steele, sir,” says the 
soldier. “ I may be Dick for my 
friends, but I don't name gentlemen 
of 3 "our cloth amongst them.” 

“ Well then, Steele.” 

“Mr. Steele, sir, if you please. 
When 3 'ou address a gentleman of his 
Majesty’s Horse Guards, be pleased 
not to be so familiar.” 

“I did n't know, sir,” said the 
laAvyer. 

“ How should you 1 I take it you 
are not accustomed to meet with gen- 
tlemen,” says the trooper. 

“Hold thy prate, and read that bit 
of paper,” says Westbur\^ 

“ 'T is Latin,” says Dick, glancing 
at it, and again saluting his officer, 
“and from a sermon of Mr. Cud- 
worth’s,” and he translated the words 
prett)” much as Henry Esmond had 
rendered them. 

“ What a young scholar you are,” 
says the Captain to the boy. 

“ Depend on 't, he knows more than 
he tells,” says the lawyer. “ I think 
we will pack him off in the coach 
with old Jezebel.” 

“ For construing a bit of Latin 'I ” 
said the Captain, very good-natured- 
ly- 

“ I would as lief go there as anj"- 
■wherc,” Harry Esmond said, simply, 
“ for there is nobody to care for me.” 

There must have been something 
touching in the child’s voice, or in 
this description of his solitude, — for 
the Captain looked at him very good- 
naturedly, and the trooper, called 
Steele, put his hand kindly on the 
lad’s head, and said some words in the 
Latin tongue. 


“ What does he say ” says the 
lawyer. 

“Faith, ask Dick himself,” cried 
Captain Westbury. 

“ I said 1 was not ignorant of mis- 
fortune myself, and had learned to 
succor the miserable, and that 's not 
your trade, Mr. Sheepskin,” said the 
trooper. 

“ You had better leave Dick the 
Scholar alone, Mr. Corbet,” the 
Captain said. And Harry Esmond, 
alwa^'s touched by a kind face and 
kind word, felt very grateful to this 
good-natured champion. 

The horses w-ere by this time har- 
nessed to the coach ; and the Countess 
and Victoire came down and were 
put into the vehicle. This woman, 
who quarrelled with Harry Esmond 
all day, was melted at parting with 
him, and called him “ dear angel,” 
and “ poor infant,” and a hundred 
other names. 

The Viscountess, giving him her 
lean hand to kiss, bade him always be 
faithful to the house of Esmond, “ If 
evil should happen to my Lord,” says 
she, “ his successor, I trust, will be 
found, and give you protection. Sit- 
uated as I am, they Avill not dare 
wreak their vengeance on me now.’* 
And she kissed a medal she wore with 
great fervor, and Henry Esmond knew 
not in the least wdiat her meaning was ; 
but hath since learned that, old as she 
was, she was forever expecting, by 
the good offices of saints and relics, 
to have an heir to the title of Es- 
mond. 

Harry Esmond -was too young to 
have been introduced into the secrets 
of politics in which his patrons were 
implicated ; for they put but few 
questions to the bo}r (who was little 
of stature, and looked much younger 
than his age), and such questions as 
they put he answ-ered cautiously 
enough, and professing even more 
ignorance than he had, for which 
his examiners willingl^’^ enough gave 
him credit. He did not say a word 
about the window' or the cu] (board 
over the fireplace; and these secrets 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


41 


quite escaped the eyes of the searcli- 
ers. 

So then my Lady was consigned to 
her coach, and sent off to llcxton, 
with licr Avoinan and the man of law 
to bear her company, a couple of 
troopers riding on cither side of the 
coach. And Harry was left behind 
at the Hall, belonging as it were to 
nobody, and quite alone in the world. 
The captain and a guard of men re- 
mained in possession there ; and the 
soldiers, who were very good-natured 
and kind, ate my Lord’s mutton and 
drank his wine, and made themselves 
comfortable, as they well might do in 
such pleasant quarters. 

The captains had their dinner served 
in my Lord’s tapestry parlor, and 
poor little Harry thought his duty 
was to wait upon Captain Westbury’s 
chair, as his custom had been to sei*ve 
his Lord when he sat there. 

After the departure of the Countess, 
Hick the Scholar took Harry Esmond 
under his special protection, and would 
examine him in his humanities, and 
talk to him both of French and Latin, 
in which tongues the lad found, and 
his new friend was Avilling eiiough to 
acknowledge, that he Avas even more 
proficient than Scholar Dick. Hear- 
ing that he had learned them from a 
Jesuit, in the praise of Avhom and 
whose goodness Harry Avas never tired 
of speaking, Dick, rather to the boy’s 
surprise, avIio began to have an early 
shrcAvdness, like many children bred 
up alone, sliOAved a great deal of theo- 
logical science, and knowledge of the 
points at issue betAveen the tAvo 
churches ; so that he and Harry Avould 
haA'e hours of controA^ersy together, 
in Avhich the boy Avas certainly Avorst- 
ed by the arguments of this singular 
trooper. “ I am no common soldier,” 
Dick Avould say, and indeed it Avas 
easy to see by his learning, breeding, 
and many accomplishments, that he 
Avas not. “ I am of one of the most 
ancient families in the empire ; I have 
had my education at a famous school, 
and a famous university; I learned 
my first rudiments of Latin near to 


Smithfield, in London, where the 
martyrs Averc roasted.” 

“ You hanged as many of ours,” 
interposed Harry ; “ and, for the 
matter of persecution. Father Holt 
told me that a young gentleman of 
Edinburgh, eighteen years of age, 
student at the college there, Avas 
hanged for heresy only last year, 
though he recanted, and solemnly 
asked pardon for his errors.” 

“ Faith ! there has been too much 
persecution on both sides : but ’t Avas 
you taught us.” 

“Nay, ’tAvas the Pagans began it,” 
cried the lad, and began to instance 
a number of saints of the Church, 
from the protoinartyr doAVUAvards, — 
“ this one’s fire Avent out under him : 
that one’s oil cooled in the caldron: 
at a third holy head the executioner 
chopped three times and it Avould not 
come off. ShoAv us martyrs in yoar 
church for Avhom such miracles have 
been done.” 

“Nay,” says the trooper gravely, 
“ the miracles of the first three cen- 
turies belong to my Church as avcU 
as yours. Master Pa])ist,” and then 
added, Avith something of a smile 
upon his countenance, and a queer 
look at Harry, — “ And yet, my little 
catechizer, I have sometimes thought 
about those miracles, that there Avas 
not much good in them, since the 
victim’s head always finished by 
coming off at the ihird or fourth 
chop, and the caldron, if it did not 
boil one day, boiled the next. Hoav- 
beit, in our times, the Church has 
lost that questionable advantage of 
respites. There never Avas a shoAver 
to j)ut'out Ridley’s fire, nor an angel 
to turn the edge of Campion’s axe. 
The rack tore the limbs of SoutliAvell 
the Jesuit and Sympson the Protes- 
tant alike. For faith, CA^erywhere 
multitudes die Avillingly enough. I 
have read in Monsieur Ry cant’s 
‘ History of the Turks,’ of thousands 
of Mahomet’s folloAvers rushing u])on 
death in battle as upon certain 
Paradise ; and in the great Mogul’s 
dominions people fling themselves by- 


42 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


hundreds under the cars of the idols 
annually, and the widows hum them- 
selves on their husbands’ bodies, as 
T is well known. ’T is not the dying 
for a faitli that ’s so hard. Master 
Harry, — every man of every nation 
has done that, — T is the living up to 
it that is difficult, as I know to my 
cost,” he added with a sigh. “And 
ah ! ” he added, “ my poor lad, I am 
not strong enough to convince thee 
by my life, — though to die for my 
religion would give me the greatest 
of joys, — but I had a dear friend in 
Magdalen College in Oxford ; I Avish 
Joe Addison were here to convince 
thee, as he quickly could, — for I 
think he’s a match for the whole 
College of Jesuits ; and what ’s more, 
in his life too. In that very sermon 
of Dr. Cudworth’s which your priest 
Avas quoting from, and Avhich suffered 
martyrdom in the brazier,” — Dick 
added Avith a smile, “ I had a thought 
of Avearing the black coat (but Avas 
ashamed of my life, you see, and 
took to this sorry red one) ; I have 
often thought of Joe Addison, — Dr. 
Cud worth says, ‘ A good conscience 
is the best looking-glass of heaven,’ 

— and there ’s a serenity in my 
friend’s face Avhich ahvays reflects it, 

— I Avish you could see him, Harry.” 

“ Did he do you a great deal of 

good ? ” asked the lad, simply. 

“ He might have done,” said the 
other, — “ at least he taught me to 
see and approve better things. ’T is 
my OAvn fault, deteriora sequi.” 

“ Y'ou seem very good,” the boy 
said. 

“ I ’m not Avhat I seem, alas ! ” 
ansAvered the trooper, — and indeed, 
as it turned out, poor Dick told the 
truth, — for that very night, at supper 
in the hall, Avhere the gentlemen of 
the troop took their repasts, and 
passed most part of their days dicing 
and smoking of tobacco, and singing 
and cursing, over the CastleAvood 
ale, — Harry Esmond found Dick 
the Scholar in a AA'oful state of drunk- 
enness. He hiccupped out a sermon ; 
and his laughing companions bade 


him sing a hymn, on which Dick, 
SAvearing he Avould run the scoundrel 
through the body Avho in.sultcd his 
religion, made ior his SAvord, which 
Avas hanging on the Avail, and fell 
doAvn flat on the floor under it, saying 
to Harry, Avho ran forAvard to help 
him, “ Ah, little Papist, I Avish 
Joseph Addison Avas here ! ” 

Though the troopers of the King’s 
Life Giiards Avere all gentlemen, yet 
the rest of the gentlemen seemed 
ignorant and vulgar boors to Harry 
Esmond, AAUth the exception of this 
good-natured Corporal Steele the 
Scholar, and Captain Westbury and 
Lieutenant Trant, Avho Averc ahvays 
kind to the lad. They remained for 
some weeks or months encamped in 
CastleAvood, and Harry learned from 
them, from time to time, hoAV the 
Lady at Plexton Castle Avas treated, 
and the particulars of her confine- 
ment there. ’T is knoAvn that King 
William Avas disposed to deal \cry 
leniently Avith the gentry Avho 
remained faithful to the old king’s 
cause ; and no prince usurping a 
croAvn, as his enemies said he did 
(righteously taking it, as I think 
noAv), CA'er caused less blood to be 
shed. As for Avomcn-conspirators, 
he kept spies on the least dangerous, 
and locked up the others. Lady 
CastleAvood had the best rooms in 
Hexton Castle, and the jailer’s 
garden to Avalk in ; and though she 
repeatedly desired to be led out to 
execution, like Mary Queen of Scots, 
there neA^cr was any thought of 
taking her painted old head off, or 
any desire to do aught but keep her 
person in security. 

And it appeared she found that 
some AA^ere friends in her misfortune, 
Avhom she had, in her prosperity, 
considered as her Avorst enemies. 
Colonel Francis Esmond my Lord’s 
cousin and her Ladyship’s, Avho had 
married the Dean "of Winchester’s 
daughter, and, since King James’s 
departure out of England, had lived 
not very far aAvay from Hexton 
tOAvn, hearing of his kinsAvoman’s 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


43 


strait, and being friends with Colonel 
Brice, commanding for King Wil- 
liam in Hex ton, and with the chin*ch 
dignitarie.s there, came to visit her 
Ladyship in ])rison, offering to his 
uncle's (laughter any friendly services 
Avhich lay in his power. And he 
brought his Lady and little daughter 
to see the prisoner, to the latter of 
whom, a child of great beauty and 
many winning ways, the old Vis- 
countess took not a little liking, 
although between her Ladyship and 
the child’s mother there was little 
more love than formerly. There are 
some injuries which women never 
forgive one another ; and Madam 
Francis Esmond, in marrying her 
cousin, had done one of those irre- 
trievable wrongs to Lady Castlewood. 
But as she was now humiliated, and 
in misfortune. Madam Francis could 
allow a truce to her enmity, and 
could be kind for a while, at least, to 
her husband’s discarded mistress. So 
the little Beatrix, her daughter, was 
permitted often to go and visit the 
imprisoned Viscountess, who, in so 
far as the child and its father were 
concerned, got to abate in her anger 
towards that branch of the Castle- 
w'ood family. And the letters of 
Colonel Esmond coming to light, as 
has been said, and his conduct being 
known to the King’s council, the 
Colonel was put in a better position 
with the existing government than he 
had ever before l)een ; any suspicions 
regarding his loyalty were entirely 
done away ; and so he was enabled to 
be of more service to his kinswoman 
than he could otherwise have been. 

And now there befell an event by 
which this lady recovered her liberty, 
and the house of Castlewood got a 
new owner, and fatherless little Harry 
Esmond a new and most kind pro- 
tector and friend. Whatever that se- 
cret was which Harry was to hear from 
my Lord, the boy never heard it ; for 
that night when Father Holt arrived, 
and carried my Lord away with him, 
was the last on which Harry ever 
saw his patron. What happened to 1 


my Lord may be briefly told here. 
Having found the horses at the place 
where they were lying, my Lord and 
F'athcr Ilolt rode together to Chat- 
teris, where they had temporary 
refuge with one of the Father’s peni- 
tents in that city; but the pursuit 
being hot for them, and the reward 
for the apprehension of one or the 
other considerable, it was deemed ad- 
visable that they should separate ; 
and the jtriest betook himself to other 
places of retreat known to him, 
whilst my Lord passed over from 
Bristol into Ireland, in which king- 
dom King James had a court and an 
army. My Lord was hut a small ad- 
dition to this ; bringing, indeed, only 
his sword and the few pieces in his 
pocket ; but the King received him 
Avitli some kindness and distinction 
in spite of his poor plight, confirmed 
him in his new title of Marquis, gave 
him a regiment, and promised him 
further promotion. But titles or 
promotion were not to benefit him 
now. My Lord Avas AA'ounded at the 
fatal battle of the Boyne, flying from 
Avhich field (long after his master had 
set him an example) he lay for a 
Avhile concealed in the marshy countiy 
near to the tOAvn of Trim, and more 
from catarrh and fcA'cr caught in the 
bogs than from the steel of tlie enemy 
in the battle, sank and died. May 
the earth lie light upon Thomas of 
CastleAA'ood ! He Avho Avrites this 
must speak in charity, though this 
lord did him and his iavo gricA'ous 
Avrongs : for one of these he AAmuld 
have made amends, perhaps, had his 
life been spared him ; but the other 
lay beyond his poAver to repair, 
though T is to be hoped that a great- 
er PoAver than a priest has absoh'ed 
him of it. He got the comfort of 
this absolution, too, such as it Avas : 
a priest of Trim Avriting a letter to 
my Lady to inform her of this ca- 
lamity. 

But in those days letters Averc sIoav 
of travelling, and our priest’s took 
tAVO months or more on its journey 
from Ireland to England: where, 


44 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


when it (lid arrive, it did not find my 
Lady at her own house ; she was at the 
Kinij’s house of Ilex ton Castle when 
tlie letter came to Castlewood, but it 
was opened for all that by the officer 
in command there. 

Harry Esmond well remembered the 
receipt of this letter which Lockwood 
brought in as Captain Westbury and 
Lieutenant Trant were on the green 
playing at bowls, young Esmond 
looking on at the sport, or reading 
his book in the arbor. 

“ Here ’s news for Frank Esmond,” 
says Captain Westbury ; “ Harry, 

did you ever see Colonel Esmond '? ” 
And Captain Westbury looked very 
hard at the boy as he s]}oke. 

Harry said he had seen him but 
once when he was at Hextou, at the 
ball there. 

“ And did he say anything *? ” 

“ He said what I don’t care to re- 
peat,” Harry answered. For he was 
now twelve years of age : he knew 
what his birth was, and the disgrace 
of it ; and he felt no love towards the 
man wdio had most likely stained his 
mother’s honor and his own. 

“ Did you love my Lord Castle- 
W'ood 7 ” 

“ I wait until I know my mother, 
sir, to say,” the boy answered, his 
eyes filling with tears. 

“ Something has happened to Lord 
Castlew'ood,” Captain Westbury said 
in a very grave tone, — “ something 
Avhich must happen to us all. He is 
dead of a wound received at the 
Boyne, fighting for King James.” 

“ I am glad my Lord fought for the 
right cause,” the boy said. 

“ It was better to meet death on the 
field like a man, than face it on Tower 
hill, as some of them may,” continued 
Mr. Westbury. “ I hope he has made 
some testament, or provided for thee 
somehow. This letter says he recom- 
mends iinirum Jilium sinim dilectissimmu 
to his lady. I hoi^e he has left you 
more than that.” 

Harry did not know, he said. He 
was in the hands of Heaven and Fate ; 
but more lonely now, as it seemed to 


him, than he had been all the rest of 
his life ; and that night, as he lay in 
his little room which he still occupied, 
the boy thought Avith many a pang of 
shame and grief of his strange and 
solitary condition : — how he had a 
father and no father ; a nameless 
mother that had been brought to ruin, 
perhaps, by that very father Avhom 
Harry could only acknowledge in se- 
cret and with a blush, and Avhom he 
could neither love nor revere. And 
he sickened to think how Father Holt, 
a stranger, and two or three soldiers, 
his acquaintances of the last six Avecks, 
AA'ere the only friends he had in the 
great Avide Avorld, Avhere he Avas noAV 
quite alone. The soul of the boy Avas 
full of love, and he longed as he lay 
in the darkness there for some one 
upon Avhom he could bestOAV it. He 
remembers, and must to his dying day, 
the thoughts and tears of that long 
night, the hours tolling through it. 
Who was he, and what ? Why here 
rather than elscAvhere'? I haA’c a 
mind, he thought, to go to that priest 
at Trim, and find out Avhat my father 
said to him on his death-bed confes- 
sion. Is there any child in the Avhole 
w'orld so unprotected as I am ? Shall 
I get up and quit this ])lace, and run 
to Ireland 7 W ith these thoughts and 
tears the lad passed that night aAA ay 
until he Avept himself to sleep. 

The next day, the gentlemen of the 
guard, Avho had heard Avhat had be- 
fallen him, Averc more than usually 
kind to the child, especially his friend 
Scholar Dick, Avho told him about his 
OAvn father’s death, Avhich had hap- 

f )cned Avhen Dick was a child at Dub- 
in, not quite fiA'C years of age. “ That 
Avas the first sensation of grief,” Dick 
said, “I CA’cr kneAA\ I remember I 
Avent into the room Avherc his body 
lay, and my mother sat Aveeping beside 
it. I had my battledore in my hand, 
and fell a beating the coffin, and call- 
ing Papa ; on Avhich my mother caught 
me in her arms, and told me in a flood 
of tears Papa could not hear me, 
and Avould play with me no more, for 
they were going to put him under 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


45 


ground, whence he could never come 
to us again. And this,” said Dick 
kindly, “ has made me pity all chil- 
dren ever since ; and caused me to love 
thee, my poor fatherless, motherless 
lad. And, if ever thou wantest a 
friend, thou shalt have one in liichard 
Steele.” 

Harry Esmond thanked him, and 
was grateful. But what could Cor- 
poral Steele do for him ? take him to 
ride a spare horse, and be servant to 
the troop 1 Though there might be 
a bar in Harry Esmond’s shield, it was 
a noble one. The council of the two 
friends was, that little Harry should 
stay where he was, and abide his for- 
tune ; so Esmond stayed on at Castle- 
wood, awaiting with no small anxiety 
the fate, whatever it was, which was 
over him. 

4 

CHAPTER VII. 

I AM LEFT AT CASTLEWOOD AN 

ORPHAN, AND FIND MOST KIND 

PROTECTORS THERE. 

During the stay of the soldiers in 
Castlevvood, honest Dick the Scholar 
was the constant companion of the 
lonely little orphan lad Harry Es- 
mond and they read together, and 
they played bowls together, and when 
the other troopers or their officers, 
who were free-spoken over their cups 
(as was the way of that day, when 
neither men nor women were over- 
nice), talked unbecomingly of their 
amours and gallantries before the child, 
Dick, who very likely was setting the 
whole company laughing, would stop 
their jokes with a maxima debetur pue- 
rls reverentia, and once offered to lug 
out against another trooper called 
Hulking Tom, who wanted to ask 
Harry Esmond a ribald question. 

Also, Dick seeing that the child 
had, as he said, a sensibility above his 
years, and a great and pi-aiseworthy 
discretion, confided to Harry his love 
for a vintner’s daughter, near to the 
Tollyai'd, Westminster, whom Dick 
addressed as Saccharissa in many ver- 


ses of his composition, and without 
whom he said it would be impossible 
that he could continue to live. He 
vowed this a thousand times in a day, 
though Harry smiled to seethe lovelorn 
swain had his health and appetite as 
well as the most heart-whole tiooper 
in the regiment : and he swore 
Harry to secrecy too, which vow the 
lad religiously kept, until he found 
that officers and privates were all tak- 
en into Dick’s confidence, and had 
the benefit of his verses. And it 
must be owned likewise that, while 
Dick was sighing after Saccharissa 
in London, he had consolations in the 
country ; for there came a wench out 
of Castlewood village who had washed 
his linen, and who cried sadly when 
she heard he was gone : and without 
paying her bill too, which Harry Es- 
mond took upon himself to discharge 
by giving the girl a silver pocket-piece, 
which Scholar Dick had presented to 
him, when, with many embraces and 
prayers for his prosperity, Dick parted 
from him, the garrison of Castlewood 
being ordered away. Dick the Schol- 
ar said he would never forget his 
young friend, nor indeed did he : and 
Harry was sorry when the kind sol- 
diers vacated Castlewood, looking for- 
ward with no small anxiety (for care 
and solitude had made him thoughtful 
beyond his years) to his fate when the 
new lord and lady of the house came 
to live there. He had lived to be past 
twelve years old now ; and had never 
had a friend, save this wild trooper 
perhaps, and Father Holt ; and had 
a fond and affectionate heart, tender to 
weakness, that would fain attach itself 
to somebody, and did not seem at rest 
until it had Ibund a friend who would 
take charge of it. 

The instinct which led Henry Es- 
mond to admire and love the gracious 
person, the fair apparition of whose 
beauty and kindness had so moved 
him when he first beheld her, became 
soon a devoted affection and passion 
of gratitude, which entirely filled his 
young heart, that as yet, except in the 
case of dear Father Holt, had had very 


46 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


little kindness for which to he thank- 
ful. 0 Dea eerie, thought he, remem- 
bering the lines out of the ^ICneis 
which Mr. Holt had taught him. 
There seemed, as the hoy thought, in 
every look or gesture of this fair 
creature, an angelical softness and 
bright pity, — in motion or repose she 
seemed gracious alike ; the tone of 
her voice, though she uttered words 
ever so trivial, gave him a pleasure 
that amounted almost to anguish. 
It cannot be called love, that a lad of 
twelve years of age, little more than 
a menial, felt for an exalted lady, his 
mistress : but it was worship. To 
catch her glance, to divine her errand 
and run on it before she had spoken 
it; to watch, follow, adore her; be- 
came the business of his life. Mean- 
while, as is the way often, his idol 
had idols of her own, and never 
thought of or suspected the admira- 
tion of her little pygmy adorer. 

My Lady had on her side her three 
idols : first and foremost, Jove and 
supreme ruler, was her lord, Harry’s 
patron, the good Viscount of Castle- 
wood. All wishes of his were laws 
with her. If he had a headache, she 
was ill. If he frowned, she trembled. 
If he joked, she smiled and was 
charmed. If he went a-hunting, she 
was always at the window to see him 
ride away, her little son crowing on 
her arm, or on the watch till his 
return. She made dishes for his din- 
ner : spiced his Avine for him : made 
the toast for his tankard at breakfast : 
hushed the house when he slept in his 
chair, and Avatched for a look Avhen he 
AA^oke. If my Lord Avas not a little 
proud of his beauty, my Lady adored 
it. She clung to his arm as he paced 
the terrace, her tAvo fiiir little hands 
clasped round his great one ; her eyes 
AA^ere never tired of looking in his 
face and Avondei’ing at its perfection. 
Her little son Avas his son, and had 
his father’s look and curly broAvn hair. 
Her (laughter Beatrix Avas his daugh- 
ter, and had his eyes — Avere there 
CA'cr such beautiful eyes in the Avorld ? 
All the house was arranged so as to 


bring him case and giA'C him pleasure. 
She liked the small gentry round 
about to come and pay him court, 
never caring for admiration for her- 
self; tho.se AA'ho Avanted to be avcII 
Avith the lady must admire him. Not 
regarding her dress, she Avould Avear a 
gOAvn to rags, because he had once 
liked it : and, if he brought her a 
brooch or a ribbon, would prefer it to 
all the most costly articles of her 
Avardrobe. 

My Lord went to London CA'ery 
year for six Aveeks, and the family 
being too poor to appear at Court 
Avith any figure, he AA^ent alone. It 
Avas not until lieAvas out of sight that 
her face shoAved any sorroAv ; and 
Avhat a joy Avhen he came back ! 
What preparation before his return ! 
The fond creature had his arm-chair 
at the chimney-side, — delighting to 
put the children in it, ancl look at 
them there. Nobody took his place 
at the table ; but his silver tankard 
stood there as Avhen my Lord Avas 
present. 

A pretty sight it Avas to see, during 
my Lord’s absence, or on those many 
mornings Avhen sleep or headache kept 
him abed, this fair young lady of 
Castlewood, her little daughter at her 
knee, and her domestics gathered 
round her, reading the Morning 
Prayer of the English Church. Es- 
mond long remembered hoAv she 
looked ancl spoke, kneeling reverently 
before the sacred book, the sun shin- 
ing upon her golden hair until it 
made a halo round about her. A 
dozen of the servants of the house 
kneeled in a line opposite their mis- 
tress ; for a Avhile Harry Esmond kept 
apart from these mysteries, but Dr. 
Tusher shoAving him that the prayers 
read Averc those of the Church of all 
ages, and the boy’s OAvn inclination 
prompting him to be ahvays as near 
as he might to his mistress, and to 
think all things she did right, from 
listening to the prayers in the ante- 
chamber, he came pi>isently to kneel 
doAvn Avith the rest of the household 
in the parlor ; and before a couple of 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


47 


' rears my Lady had made a thorough 
convert. Indeed the boy loved his 
catcchizer so much that lie would 
have subscribed to anytliiu"- she bade 
him, and was never tired of listening 
to her fond discourse and simple com- 
ments upon the book, which she read 
to him in a voice of which it was dif- 
ficult to resist the sweet persuasion 
and tender appealing kindness. This 
friendly controversy, and the intimacy 
v/hich it occasioned, bound the lad 
more fondly than ever to his mistress. 
Tlie happiest period of all his life was 
tliis ; and the young mother, Avith 
her daughter and son, and the orphan 
lad Avhom she protected, read and 
Avorked and played, and Avere children 
together. If the lady looked fonvard 
— as Avhat fond Avoman does not ? — 
towards the future, she had no plans 
from Avhich Harry Esmond Avas left 
out ; and a thousand and a thousand 
times, in his passionate and impetu- 
ous Avay, he voAved that no poAver 
should separate him from his mis- 
tress ; and only asked for some chance 
to happen by Avhich he might shoAV 
his fidelity to her. Noav, at the close 
of his life, as he sits and recalls in 
tranquillity the happy and busy scenes 
of it, he can think, not ungratefully, 
that he has been faithful to that eariy 
VOAV. Such a life is so simple that 
years may be chronicled in a fcAV lines. 
JBut fcAv men’s life-voyages are des- 
tined to be all prosperous ; and this 
calm of Avhich Ave are speaking Avas 
soon to come to an end. 

As Esmond grcAV, and obscrAxd for 
himself, he found of necessity much to 
read and think of outside that fond 
circle of kinsfolk aa'Iio had admitted 
him to join hand Avith them. He read 
more books than they cared to study 
Avith him ; AA'as alone in the midst of 
them many a time, and passed nights 
over labors, futile perhaps, but in 
Avhich they could not join him. Ilis 
dear mistress divined his thoughts 
Avith her usual jealous Avatchfiilness 
of affection : began to forebode a time 
when he would escape from his home- 
nest ; and, at his eager protestations 


to the contrary, Avonld only sigh and 
shake her head Hefore those fatal 
decrees in life are executed, there arc 
ahvays secret previsions and Avarning 
omens. When everything yet seems 
calm, Ave are aware that the storm is 
coming. Ere the happy days Av^ero 
over, two at least of that home-party 
felt that they Avere draAving to a close ; 
and Avere uneasy, and on the lookout 
for the cloud Avhich Avas to obscuro 
their calm. 

’T Avas easy for Harry to sec, Iioaa" 
ev'cr much his lady persisted in obedi- 
ence and admiration for her husband, 
that my Lord tired of his quiet life, 
and grcAv Aveary, and then testy, at 
those gentle bonds Avith Avhich his 
Avife Avould have held him. As they 
say the Grand Lama of Thibet is 
A'ery much fatigued by his character 
of divinity, and yaAAms on his altar 
as his bonzes kneel and Avorship him, 
many a home-god groAVS heartily sick 
of the reverence Avith Avhich his fam- 
ily-dcA’otees pursue him, and sighs for 
freedom and for his old life, and to be 
off the pedestal on Avhich his depend- 
ants Avould have him sit forcA^er, 
Avhilst they adore him, and ply him 
Avith floAvers, and hymns, and incense, 
and flattery; — so, after a few years 
of his marriage, my honest Lord 
CastlcAA'ood began to tire ; all the 
high-floAvn raptures and devotional 
ceremonies Avith Avhich his Avife,, his 
chief priestess, treated him, first sent 
him to sleep, and then droA^e him out 
of doors ; for the truth must be told, 
that my Lord Avas a jolly gentleman, 
Avith very little of the august or 
divine in his nature, though his fond 
Avife persisted in rcA'ering it, — and, 
besides, he had to pay a penalty for 
this love, Avhich persons of his dis- 
position seldom like to defray : and, 
in a Avord, if he had a loving Avife, 
had a A'cry jealous and exacting one. 
Then he Avearied of this jealousy; 
then he broke away from it ; then 
came, no doubt, complaints and re- 
criminations ; then, perhaps, promises 
of amendment not fulfilled ; then up- 
braidings not the more pleasant be- 


48 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


cause they were silent, and only sad 
looks and tearful eyes conveyed them. 
Then, perhaps, the pair reached that 
other stage which is not uncommon 
in married life, Avhen tlie woman per- 
ceives that the god of the honeymoon 
is a god no more ; only a mortal like 
the rest of us, — and so she looks into 
her heart, and lo ! vacuai sedes et inania 
arcana. And now, supposing our 
lady to have a fine genius and a bril- 
liant wit of her own, and the magic 
fpcll and infatuation removed from 
lier which had led her to worship as a 
god a very ordinary mortal, — and 
what follows"? They live together, 
and they dine together, and they say 
“ my dear ” and “ my love ” as here- 
tofore ; but the man is himself, and 
the woman herself: that dream of 
love is over as everything else is over 
in life : as flowers and fury, and griefs 
and pleasures, are over. 

Very likely the Lady Castlewood 
had ceased to adore her husband her- 
self long before she got off her knees, 
or would allow her household to dis- 
continue worshipping him. To do 
him justice, my Lord never exacted 
this subservience: he laughed and 
joked and drank his bottle, and swore 
when he was angry, much too famil- 
iarly for any one pretending to sub- 
limity; and did his best to destroy 
the ceremonial with which his wife 
chose to surround him. And it re- 
quired no great conceit on young Es- 
mond’s part to see that his own 
brains were better than his patron’s, 
who, indeed, never assumed any airs 
of superiority over the lad, or* over 
any dependant of his, save when he 
was displeased, in which case he Avould 
express his mind in oaths very freely; 
and who, on the contrary, perhaps, 
spoiled “ Parson Harry,” as he called 
young Esmond, by constantly prais- 
ing his parts and admiring his boyish 
stock of learning. 

It may seem ungracious in one who 
has received a hundred favors from 
his patron to speak in any but a 
reverential manner of his elders ; but 
the present writer has had descend- 


ants of his own, whom he has brought 
up with as little as possible of the 
servility at present exacted by parents 
from children (under which mask of 
duty there often lurks indifference, 
contempt, or rebellion) : and as he 
Avould have his grandsons believe or 
represent him to be not an inch taller 
than Nature has made him: so, with 
regard to his past acquaintances, he 
would speak Avithout anger, but with 
truth, as far as he knows it, neither 
extenuating nor setting down aught 
in malice. 

So long, then, as the world moved 
according to Lord Castlewood’s 
wishes, he was good-humored enough ; 
of a temper naturally sprightly and 
easy, liking to joke, especially Avith 
his inferiors, and charmed to receive 
the tribute of their laughter. All 
exercises of the body he could perform 
to perfection, — shooting at a mark 
and flying, breaking horses, riding at 
the ring, pitching the quoit, playing 
at all games Avith great skill. And 
not only did he do these things Avell, 
but he thought he did them to per- 
fection ; hence he was often tricked 
about horses, Avhich he pretended to 
knoAV better than any jockey; Avas 
made to play at ball and billiards by 
sharpers who took his money, and 
came back from London Avofully 
poorer each time than he AA'ent, as the 
state of his affairs testified when the 
sudden accident came by which his 
career Avas brought to an end. 

He Avas fond of the parade of dress, 
and passed as many hours daily at his 
toilet as an elderly coquette. A tenth 
art of his day Avas spent in the 
rushing of his teeth and the oiling 
of his hair, Avdiich Avas curling and 
broAvn, and Avhich he did not like to 
conceal under a periAvig, such as al- 
most CAwybody of that time Avore. 
(We have the liberty of our hair back 
noAv, but poAvder and pomatum along 
with it. When, I Avonder, Avill these 
monstrous poll-taxes of our age be 
withdraAvn, and men alloAved to carry 
their colors, black, red, or gray, as 
Nature made them?) And as he 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


49 


liked her to be well dressed, his Lady 
spared no pains in that matter to 
please him ; indeed, she would dress 
her head or cut it oft’ if he had bid- 
den her. 

It was a wonder to young: Esmond, 
serving as page to my Lord and 
Lady, to hear, day after day, to such 
company as came, the same boisterous 
stories told by my Lord, at which his 
lady never failed to smile or hold 
down her head, and Doctor Tusher 
to burst out laughing at the proper 
oint, or cry, “ Fie, my Lord, rcmeni- 
er my cloth ! ” but with such a faint 
sliow of resistance, that it only pro- 
voked my Lord further. Lord Castle- 
wood’s stories rose by degrees, and 
became stronger after the ale at din- 
ner and the bottle afterwards; my 
Lady always taking flight after the 
very first glass to Church and King, 
and leaving the gentlemen to drink 
the rest of the toasts by themselves. 

And, as Harry Esmond was her 
page, he also was called from duty at 
this time. ‘‘ My Lord has lived in the 
army and with soldiers,” she would 
say to the lad, “ amongst whom great 
license is allowed. You have had a 
different nurture, and I trust these 
things will change as you grow old- 
er; not that any fault attaches to my 
Lord, who is one of the best and most 
religious men in this kingdom.” And 
very likely she believed so. ’T is 
strange what a man may do, and a 
woman yet think him an angel. 

And as Esmond has taken truth for 
his motto, it must be owned, even 
with regard to that other angel, his 
mistress, that she had a fault of char- 
acter which flawed her perfections. 
With the other sex perfectly tolerant 
and kindly, of her own she was inva- 
riably jealous ; and a proof that she 
had this vice is, that though she would 
acknowledge a thousand faults that 
she had not, to this which she had she 
could never be got to own. But if there 
came a woman with even a semblance 
of beauty to Castlewood, slje was so 
sure to find out some wrong in her, 
that my Lord, laughing in his jolly 


way, would often joke with her con- 
cerning her foible. Comely servant- 
maids might come for hire," but none 
were taken at Castlewood. The 
housekeeper was old ; my Lady’s own 
waiting- woman stpiinted, and was 
marked with the sniall-pox ; the 
housemaids and scullion were ordina- 
ry country wenches, to whom Lady 
Castlewood was kind, as her nature 
made her to everybody almost ; but as 
soon as ever she had to do with a 
pretty woman, she was cold, retiring, 
and haughty. The country ladies 
found this fault in her ; and though the 
men all admired her, their wives and 
daughters complained of her coldness 
and airs, and said that Castlewood 
was pleasanter in Lady Jezebel’s time 
(as the dowager was called) than at 
present. Some few were of my mis- 
tress’s side. Old Lady Blenkinsop 
Jointure, who had been at Court in 
King James the First’s time, always 
took her side ; and so did old Mis- 
tress Crookshank, Bishop Crook- 
shank’s daughter, of Hexton, who, 
with some more of their like, pro- 
nounced my Lady an angel : but the 
pretty women were not of this mind ; 
and the opinion of the country was 
that my Lord was tied to his wife’s 
apron-strings, and that she ruled over 
him. 

The second fight which Harry Es- 
mond had, was at fourteen years of 
age, with Bryan Hawkshaw, Sir John 
Hawkshaw’s son, of Bramblebrook, 
who, advancing this opinion, that my 
Lady was jealous and henpecked my 
Lord, put Harry in such a fury, that 
Harry fell on him and with such a rage, 
that the other boy, who was two years 
older and b}' far bigger than he, had 
by far the worst of the assault, until 
it was interrupted by Doctor Tusher 
walking out of the dinner-room. 

Bryan Hawkshaw got up bleeding 
at the nose, having, indeed, been sur- 
prised, as many a stronger man might 
have been, by the fury of the assault 
upon him. 

“You little bastard beggar!” he 
said, “ I T1 murder you for this I ” 

D 


50 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


And indeed he was big enough. 

“Bastard or not,’^ said the other, 
grinding his teeth, “ I have a couple 
of swords, and if you like to meet me, 
as a man, on the terrace to-niglit — ” 

And here the Doctor coming up, 
the colloquy of the young champions 
ended. Very likely, big as he was, 
Hawkshaw did not care to continue a 
fight with such a ferocious opponent 
as this had been. 

— « — 

CHABTER VIII. 

AFTER GOOD FORTUNE COMES EVIL. 

Since my Lady Mary Wortley 
Montagu brought liome the custom 
of inoculation from Turkey (a peril- 
ous prr.ctice many deem it, and only 
a useless rushing into the jaws .of 
danger), I think the severity of the 
small-pox, that dreadful scourge of 
the world, has somewhat been abated 
in our part of it ; and remember in 
my time hundreds of the young and 
beautiful who have been carried to 
the grave, or have only risen from 
their pillows frightfully scarred and 
disfigured by this malady. Many a 
sweet face hath left its roses on the 
bed on Avhich this dreadful and with- 
ering blight has laid them. In my 
early days, this pestilence would enter 
a village and destroy half its inhabi- 
tants : at its approach, it may Avell be 
imagined, not only the beautiful but 
the strongest were alarmed, and those 
fled who could. One day in the year 
1694 (I have good reason to remem- 
ber it). Doctor Tusher ran into Cas- 
tlcwood House, with a face of conster- 
nation, saying that the malady had 
made its appearance at the black- 
smith’s house in the village, and that 
one of the maids there was down in 
the small-pox. 

The blacksmith, besides his forge 
and irons for horses, had an alehouse 
for men, which his wife kept, and his 
company sat on benches before the 
inn-door, looking at tlie smithy while 
they drank their beer. Now, there 


was a pretty girl at this inn, the land- 
lord’s men called Nancy Sievewright, 
a bouncing, fresh-looking lass, who.'C 
face was as red as the hollyhocks over 
the pales of the garden behind the inn. 
At this time Ilany Esmond was a lad 
of sixteen, and somehow in his walks 
and rambles it often happened that he 
fell in with Nancy Sievewright’s bon- 
ny face ; if he did not want something 
done at the blacksmith’s he would go 
and drink ale at the “ Three Castles ” 
or find some pretext for seeing this 
poor Nancy. Poor thing, Harry meant 
or imagined no harm ; and she, no 
doubt, as little, but the truth is they 
were always meeting, — in the lanes, 
or by the brook, or at the garden-pal- 
ings, or about Castlewood ; it was, 
“ Lord, Mr. Henry ! ” and “ How do 
you do, Nancy ? ” many and many a 
time in the week. ’T is surprising 
the magnetic attraction which draws 
people together from ever so far. I 
blush as I think of poor Nancy now, 
in a red bodice and buxom ))urj)le 
cheeks and a canvas petticoat ; and 
that I devised schemes, and set traps, 
and made speeches in my heart, which 
I seldom had courage to say when in 
presence of that •humble enchantress, 
who knew nothing beyond milking a 
cow, and opened her black eyes with 
wonder when I made one of my fine 
speeches out of Waller or Ovid. Poor 
Nancy ! from the midst of far-olf 
years thine honest country face beams 
out; and I remember thy- kind voice 
as if I had heard it yesterday. 

When Doctor Tusher brought the 
news that the small-pox was at the 
“ Three Castles,” whither a tramper, 
it was said, had brought the malady, 
Henry Esmond’s first thought Avas of 
alarm for poor Nancy, and then of 
shame and disquiet for the Castle 
wood family, lest he might have 
brought this infection ; for the truth 
is that Mr. Harry had been sitting in 
a back room for an hour that day, 
Avhcrc Nancy Sievewright Avas Avith a 
little brother Avho complained of head- 
ache, and AA^as lying stupefied and 
crying, either in a chair by the corner 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


51 


of the fire, or in Nancy’s lap, or on 
mine. 

Little Lady Beatrix screamed out 
at Dr. T usher’s news ; and my Lord 
cried out, “ God bless me ! ” He 
was a brave man, and not afraid of 
death in any shape but this. He was 
A'cry proud of his pink complexion 
and fair liair, — but the idea of death 
by small-pox scared liim beyond all 
otlier ends. “ We will take the chil- 
dren and ride away to-morrow to 
Walcote ” : this was my Lord’s small 
house, inherited from his mother, near 
to Winchester. 

“ That is the best refufre in case the 
disease spreads,” said Dr. Tusher. 
“ ’T is awful to think of it begin- 
ning at the alcliouse ; half the people 
of the village have visited that to- 
day, or the blacksmith’s, which is 
the same thing. My clerk Simons 
lodges with them, — 1 can never go 
into my reading-desk and have tliat 
fellow so near me. I icon’t have that 
man near me.” 

“ If a ])arishioner dying in the small- 
pox sent to you, would you not go ? ” 
asked my Lady, looking up from lier 
frame of work, with her calm blue 
eyes. 

“ By the Lord, I would n’t,” said 
my Lord. 

“ We are not in a popish country ; 
and a sick man doth not absolutely 
need absolution and confession,” said 
the Doctor. “ ’T is true they are a 
comfort and a help to him when at- 
tainable, and to be administered with 
hope of good. But in a case where 
tlie life of a parish priest in the midst 
of his flock is highly valuable to them, 
he is not called upon to risk it (and 
therewith the lives, future prospects, 
and temporal, even spiritual welfare 
of his own family) for the sake of a 
single person, who is not very likely 
in a condition even to understand the 
religious message whereof the priest is 
the bringcr, — being uneducated, and 
likewise stupefied or delirious by dis- 
ease. If your Ladyship or his Lord- 
ship, my excellent good friend and 
patron, were to take it ” 


“ God forbid ! ” cried my Lord. 

“Amen ! ” continue{l Dr. Tusher. 
“ Amen to that prayer, my very good 
Lord ! for your sake 1 would lay my 
life down,” — and, to judge from the 
alarmed look of the Doctor’s i)urple 
face, you would have thought that 
that sacrifice was about to be called 
for instantly. 

To love children, and be gentle 
with them, was an instinct, rather 
than a merit, in Henry Esmond ; so 
much so, that he thought almost with 
a sort of shame of his liking for 
them, and of the softness into whicli 
it betrayed him ; and on this day the 
poor fellow had not only had his 
young friend, the milkmaid’s brother, 
on his knee, but had been drawing 
pictures and telling stories to the lit- 
tle Frank Castlewood, who had oceu- 
pied the same ]flace for an hour after 
dinner, and was never tired of Hen- 
ry’s talcs, and his pictures of soldiers 
and horses. As luck would have it, 
Beatrix had not on that evening taken 
her usual place, which generally she 
was glad enough to have, upon her 
tutor’s lap. For Beatrix, from the 
earliest timci Avas jealous of every ca- 
ress Avhich was given to her little 
brother F’rank. She Avould fling 
aAvay eA’en from the maternal arms, 
if she saw Frank had been there be- 
fore her ; insomuch that Lady Es- 
mond Avas obliged not to shoAV her 
love for her son in the presence of the 
little girl, and embrace one or the 
other alone. She AAmuld turn pale 
and red Avith rage if she caught signs 
of intelligence or affection between 
Frank and his mother ; AAmuld sit 
apart, and not speak fbr a Avhole 
night, if she thought the boy had a 
better fruit or a larger cake than 
hers ; AA'ould fling aAvay a ribbon if 
he had one ; and from the earliest 
age, sitting up in her little chair by 
the great fireplace opposite to the cor- 
ner where Lady CastlcAVOod common- 
ly sat at her embroidery, Avould utter 
infantine sarcasms about the fa\'or 
shoAvn to her brother. These, if 
spoken in the presence of Lord Cas- 


52 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


tlewood, tickled and amused his hu- 
mor ; he would pretend to love Frank 
best, and dandle and kiss him, and 
roar with laughter at Beatrix’s jeal- 
ousy. But the truth is, my Lord did 
not often Avitiiess these scenes, nor 
very much trouble the quiet fireside 
at which his lady passed many long 
evenings. My Lord was hunting all 
day when the season admitted ; he 
frequented all the cock-lights and 
fairs in the country, and would ride 
tAventy miles to see a main fought, or 
tAvo cloAvns break their heads at a 
cudgelling-match ; and he liked bet- 
ter to sit in his parlor drinking ale 
and punch with Jack and Tom, than 
in his Avife’s draAving-room : Avhither, 
if he came, he brought only too often 
bloodshot eyes, a hiccuping A’oice, and 
a reeling gait. The mauagement of 
the house, and the property, tlic care 
of the fcAv tenants and the village 
poor, and the accounts of the estate, 
Avere in the hands of his lady and her 
young secretary, Harry Esmond. 
My Lord took charge of the stables, 
the kennel, and the cellar, — and he 
filled this and emptied it too. 

So it chanced that upon this very 
day, Avhen poor Harry Esmond had 
had the blacksmith’s son, and the 
peer’s son, alike upon his knee, little 
Beatrix, Avho AV'ould come to her tu- 
tor Avillingly enough Avith her book 
and hcfAvriting, had refused him, see- 
ing the place occupied by her brother, 
and, luckily for her, had sat at the 
farther end of the room, aAvay from 
him, playing with a spaniel dog Avhich 
she had (and for Avhich, by fits and 
starts, she Avould take a great affec- 
tion), and talking at Harry Esmond 
over her shoulder, as she pretended to 
caress the dog, saying that Fido 
Avould love her, and she would love 
Fido, and nothing but Fido, all her 
life. 

When, then, the ncAvs Avas brought 
that the little boy at the “ Three Cas- 
tles ” Avas ill Avith the small-pox, poor 
Harry Esmond felt a shock of alarm, 
not so much for himself, as for his 
mistress’s son, Avhom he might have 


brought into peril. Beatrix, Avho had 
pouted sutiiciently (and Avho, when- 
ever a stranger appeared, began, from 
infancy almost, to play off little 
graces to catch his attention), her 
brotlier being iioav gone to bed, Avas 
for taking her ])lacc upon Esmond’s 
knee : for, though the Doctor Avas 
very obsequious to her, she did not 
like him, because he had thick boots 
and dirty hands (the pert young miss 
said), and because she hated learning 
the catechism. 

But as she advanced toAvards Es- 
mond from the corner Avhere she had 
been sulking, he started back and 
placed the great chair on Avhich he 
Avas sitting betAveen him and her, — 
saying in the French language to 
Lady CastleAvood, AAuth Avhom the 
young lad had read much, and Avhom 
he had perfected in this tongue, — 
“Madam, the child must not ap- 
proach me ; I must tell you that I 
Avas at the blacksmith’s to-day, and 
had his little boy upon my lap.” 

“ Where you took my son after- 
Avards,” Lady CastleAvood said, very 
angry, and turning red. “ I thank 
you, sir, for giving him such compa- 
ny. Beatrix,” she said in English, 
“I forbid you to touch Mr. Esmond. 
Come aAvay, child, — come to your 
room. Come to your room, — I Avish 
your Reverence good night, — and 
you, sir, had you not better go back 
to your friends at the alehouse ? ” 
Her eyes, ordinarily so kind, darted 
flashes of anger as she spoke ; and 
she tossed up her head (Avhich hung 
doAvn commonly) Avith the mien of a 
princess. 

“ Hey-day ! ” says my Lord, Avho 
Avas standing by the fireplace, — in- 
deed he Avas in the position to Avhich 
he generally came by that hour of 
the eA’cning, — “ Hey-day ! Rachel, 
Avhat are you in a passion about 7 
Ladies ought ncA'er to be in a passion. 
Ought they. Doctor Tusher7 though 
it does good to see Rachel in a 
passion — Damme, Lady CastleAvood, 
you look devTish handsome in a pas- 
sion.” 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 53 


"It is, my Lord, because Mr. Henry 
Esmond, having nothing to do with 
his time here, and not having a taste 
for our company, has been to the alc- 
liousc, -where lie has some friends.” 

My Lord burst out, witli a laugh 
and an oath, — “ You young slyboots, 
you ’vc been at Nancy Sievewright. 

D the young hypocrite, who ’d 

have thought it in him ? I say, 
Tusher, he ’s been after — ” 

" Enough, my Lord,” said my Lady, 
"don’t insult me with this talk.” 

" Upon my word,” said poor Har- 
ry, ready to cry with shame and mor- 
tification, " the honor of that young 
person is perfectly unstained for 
me.” 

" O, of course, of course,” says my 
Lord more and more laughing and tip- 
sy. " Upon his honor, Doctor — Nancy 
Sieve . . .” 

"Take Mistress Beatrix to bed,” 
my Lady cried at this moment to Mrs. 
Tucker her woman, who came in with 
her Ladyship’s tea. "Put her into 
my room, — no, into yours,” she add- 
ed quickly. " Go, my child : go, I 
say : not a word ! ” And Beatrix, 
quite surprised at so sudden a tone of 
authority from one who was seldom 
accustomed to raise her voice, went 
out of the room with a scared coun- 
tenance, and waited even to burst out 
a-erving until she got to the door 
with Mrs. Tucker. 

For once her mother took little 
heed of her sobbing, and continued to 
speak eagerly, — " My Lord,” she said, 
"this young man — your dependant 

— told me just nowin French — he 
•was ashamed to speak in his own 
language — that he had been at the 
alehouse all day, where he has had 
that little wretch who is now ill of the 
small-pox on his knee. And he comes 
home i-eeking from that iilace — yes, 
reeking from it — and takes my boy | 
into his lap without shame, and sits | 
down by me, yes, by me. He may 
have killed Frank for what I know 

— killed our child. Why was he 
brought in to disgrace our house ? 
Why is he here I Let him go, — let 


him go, I say, to-night, and pollute 
the place no more.” 

She had never once uttered a syl- 
lable of unkindness to Harry Esmond ; 
and her cruel words smote the poor 
boy, so that he stood for some 
moments bewildered with grief and 
rage at the injustice of such a stab 
from such a hand. He turned quite 
white from red, which he had been. 

" I cannot help my birth. Madam,” 
he said, " nor my other misfortune. 
And as for your boy, if — if my 
coming nigh to him pollutes him 
now, it was not so always. Good 
night, my Lord. Heaven bless you 
and yours for your goodness to "me. 
I have tired her Ladyship’s kindness 
out, and I will go ” ; and, sinking 
down on his knee, Harry Esmond 
took the rough hand of his benefactor 
and kissed it. 

“ He wants to go to the alehouse, — 
let him go,” cried my Lady. 

" I ’m d d if he shall,” said my 

Lord. " I did n’t think you could be 
so d d ungrateful, Rachel.” 

Her reply was to burst into a flood 
of tears, and to quit the room -with a 
rapid glance at Harry E.smond, — as 
my Lord, not heeding them, and still 
in great good-humor, raised up his 
young client from his kneeling pos- 
ture (for a thousand kindnesses had 
caused the lad to revere my Lord as a 
father), and put his broad hand on 
Harry Esmond’s shoulder. 

" She was always so,” my Lord 
said ; " the very notion of a woman 
drives her mad. I took to liquor on 
that very account, by Jove, for no 
other reason than that ; for she can’t 
be jealous of a beer-barrel or a bottle 

of rum, can she. Doctor? D it, 

look at the maids — just look at the 
maids in the house,” (my Lord pro- 
nounced all the words together — just- 
look-at-thc-maze-in-the-housc : jever- 
scc-such-maze ?) ."You would n’t 
take a wife out of Castlcwood now, 
would you. Doctor ? ” and my Lord 
burst out laughing. 

The Doctor, who had been looking 
at my Lord Castlewood from under 


THE HISTORY OP HENRY ESMOND. 


54 ' 

his cyelifls, said, “But joking apart, 
and, my Lord, as a divine, I cannot 
treat the subject in a jocular light, 
nor, as a pastor of this congregation, 
look with anything but sorrow at the 
idea of so very young a sheep going 
astray.” 

“ Sir,” said young Esmond, burst- 
ing out indignantly, “ she told me 
that you yourself were a horrid old 
man," and had offered to kiss her in 
the dairy.” 

“ For shame, Henry,” cried Doctor 
Tusher, turning as red as a turkey- 
cock, while my Lord continued to 
roar with laughter. “ If you listen 
to the falsehoods of an abandoned 
girl -” 

“ She is as honest as any woman 
in England, and as pure for me,” 
cried out Henry, “and as kind, and 
as good. For shame on you to ma- 
lign her ! ” 

“ E'ar be it from mo to do so,” cried 
the Doctor. “ Heaven grant I may 
he mistaken in the girl, and in you, 
sir, who have a truly precocious 
genius; but that is not the point at 
issue at ])resent. It apjjears that the 
small-pox broke out in the little boy 
at the ‘Three Castles’; that it Avas 
on him Avhen you visited the alehouse, 
for your oicn reasoiis ; and that you 
sat with the child for some time, and 
immediately afterwards with my 
young lord.” The Doctor raised 
his voice as he spoke, and looked 
tOAvards my Lady, Avho had uoav 
come back, looking very pale, Avith a 
handkerchief in her hand. 

“ This is all A'ery true, sir,” said 
Lady Esmond, looking at the young 
man. 

“ ’T is to be feared that he may 
liaA^e brought the infection Avith 
him.” 

“From the alehouse — yes,” said 
my Lady. 

“ D it, I forgot Avhen I collar-od 

you, boy,” cried my Lord, stepping 
back. “ Keep off, Harry, my boy ; 
there ’s no good in running into the 
wolf’s jaAvs, you knoAV.” 

My Lady looked at him Avith some 


surprise, and instantly advancing to 
Henry Esmond, took his hand. “I 
beg your pardon, Henry,” she said ; 
“ I spoke very unkindly. I have no 
right to interfere Avith you — Avith 
your—” 

My Lord broke out into an oath. 
“ Can’t you leave the boy alone, my 
Lady 1 ” She looked a little red, and 
faintly pressed the lad’s hand as she 
dropped it. 

“ There is no use, my Lord,’’ she 
said ; “Frank Avas on his knee as he 
Avas making pictures, and Avas run- 
ning constantly from Henry to me. 
The evil is done, if any.” 

“ Not AAuth me, damme,” cried my 
Lord. “I’ve been smoking,” — and 
he lighted his pipe again Avith a coal, 
— “ and it keeps off infection ; and 
as the disease is in the village — 
plague take it — I Avould have you 
leave it. We ’ll go to-morroAv to 
Walcote, my Lady.” 

“ I luiA’e no fear,” said my Lady ; 
“I may have had it as an infant: it 
broke out in our house then ; and 
Avhen four of my sisters had it at 
home, tAvo years before our marriage, 
I escaped it, and tAvo of my dear sis- 
ters died.” 

“I Avon’t run the risk,” said my 
Lord ; “ I ’m as bold as any man, but 
I ’ll not bear that.” 

“ Take Beatrix Avith you and 
go,” said my Lady. “For us the 
mischief is done ; and Tucker can 
Avait upon us, Avho has had the dis- 
ease.” 

“ Y'ou take care to choose ’em ugly 
enough,” said my Lord, at Avhich her 
Ladyship hung doAvn her head and 
looked foolish ; and my Lord, calling 
away Tusher, bade him come to the 
oak parlor and have a pipe. The 
Doctor made a Ioav boAv to her Lady- 
ship (of Avhich salaams he Avas pro- 
fuse), and AV'alked off on his creaking 
square-toes after his patron. 

When the lady and the young 
man Avere alone, there Avas a silence 
of some moments, during Avhich he 
stood at the fire, looking rather A^a- 
cantly at the dying embers, whilst 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


55 


her Ladyship busied herself with the 
tambour-frame and needles. 

“ I am sorry,” she said, after a 
pause, in a hard, dry voice, — “I 
7'epeat I am sorry that I showed my- 
self so ungrateful for the safety of 
my son. It was not at all my Avish 
that you should leaA'e us, I am sure, 
unless you found pleasure elscAvhere. 
But you must perceive, Mr. Esmond, 
that at your age, and with your tastes, 
it is impossible that you can contin- 
ue to stay upon the intimate footing 
in Avhich you have been in this fami- 
ly. You have Avished to go to the 
University, and I think 't is quite as 
Avell that you should be sent thither. 
I did not press this matter, thinking 
you a child, as you are, indeed, in 
years, — quite a child ; and I should 
ncA'cr hav'c thought of treating you oth- 
erwise until — until these circumstan- 
ces came to light. And I shall beg my 
Lord to despatch you as quick as pos- 
sible : and Avill go on Avith Frank’s 
learning as Avell as I can (I OAve my 
father thanks for a little grounding, 
and you, I’m sure, for much that you 
have taught me), — and — and I Avish 
you a good-night, Mr. Esmond.” 

And Avith tliis she dropped a state- 
ly courtesy, and, taking her candle, 
AV'ent aAvay through the tapestry door, 
Avhich led to her apartments. Es- 
mond stood by the fireplace, blankly 
staring after her. Indeed, he scarce 
seemed to see until she was gone ; 
and then her image Avas impressed 
upon him, and remained forever fixed 
upon his memory. He saAV her re- 
treating, the taper lighting up her 
marble face, her scarlet lip quivering, 
and her shining golden hair. He 
Avent to his OAvn room, and to bed, 
Avhere he tried to read, as his cus- 
tom Avas ; but he ncA'cr kneAV Avhat 
he Avas reading until afterwards he 
remembered the appearance of the 
letters of the book (it Avas in Mon- 
taigne’s Essays), and the events of 
the day passed before him, — that is, 
of the last hour of the day ; for as for 
the morning, and the poor milkmaid 
yonder, he never so much as once 


thought. And he could not get to 
sleep until daylight, and Avoke Avith a 
violent headache, and quite un- 
rc freshed. 

He had brought the contagion Avith 
him from the “ Three Castles ” sure 
enough, and AV'as presently laid up 
Avith the small-pox, Avhich spared the 
hall no more than it did the cottage. 

♦ 

CHAPTER IX. 

I HAA'E THE S.AIALL-POX, AND PRE- 
PARE TO LEAA'E CASTLEAVOOD. 

When Harry Esmond passed 
through the crisis of that malady, and 
returned to health again, he found 
that little Frank Esmond had also 
suffered and rallied after the disease, 
and ihe lady his mother Avas doAvn 
Avith it, Avith a couple more of the 
household. “ It Avas a Providence, 
for Avhich avc all ought to be thank- 
ful,” Doctor Tusher said, “ that my 
Lady and her son Averc spared, Avhilc 
Death carried off the poor domestics of 
the house ” ; and rebuked Harry for 
asking, in his simple Avay, For Avhich 
AA'c ought to be thankful, — that the 
servants Avere killed, or the gentle- 
folks Averc saA'cd ? Nor could young 
Esmond agree in the Doctor’s vehe- 
ment protestations to my Lady, Avhen 
he visited her during her convales- 
cence, that the malady had not in the 
least impaired her charms, and had 
not been churl enough to injure the 
fair features of the Viscountess of 
CastlcAvood ; Avhereas, in spite of 
these fine speeches, Harry thought 
that her Ladyship’s beauty Avas very 
much injured by the small-pox. 
When the marks of the disease cleared 
aAvay, they did not, it is true, leaA'e 
furroAvs or scars on her face (c.xcept 
one, perhaps, on her forehead OA-er 
her left eyebroAv) ; but the delicacy 
of her ro.sy color and complexion Avas 
gone ; her eyes had lost their bril- 
liancy, her hair fell, and her face 
looked older. It Avas as if a coarse 
hand had rubbed off the delicate tints 


56 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


of that sweet picture, and brought it, 
as one lias seen unskilful painting- 
cleaners do, to the dead color. Also, 
it must he owned, that for a year or 
two after the malady, her Ladyship’s 
nose was swollen and redder. 

There would be no need to men- 
tion these trivialities, but that they 
actually influenced many lives, as 
trifles will in the world, where a gnat 
often plays a greater part than an ele- 
phant, and a mole-hill, as we know 
in King William’s case, can upset an 
empire. When Tusher in his court- 
ly way (at which Harry Esmond al- 
ways chafed and spoke scornfully) 
vowed and protested that my Lady’s 
face was none the worse, — the lad 
broke out and said, “ It is worse : and 
my mistress is not near so handsome 
as she was ” ; on which poor Lady 
Castlewood gave a rueful smile, and 
a look into a little Venice glass she 
had, which showed her, I suppose, 
that what the stupid boy said was 
only too true, lor she turned away 
from the glass, and her eyes tilled 
with tears. 

The sight of these in Esmond’s 
heart ahvays created a sort of rage of 
pity, and seeing them on the face of 
the lady whom he loved best, the 
young blunderer sank doAvn on his 
knees, and besought her to pardon 
him, saying that he w’as a fool and an 
idiot, that he w^as a brute to make 
such a speech, he who had caused her 
malady ; and Doctor Tusher told him 
that a bear he was indeed, and a bear 
he w'ould remain, at wdiicli speech 
poor young Esmond was so dumb- 
stricken that he did not even growl. 

“ He is my bear, and I wdll not have 
him baited. Doctor,” my Lady said, 
atting her hand kindly on the boy’s 
cad, as he was still kneeling at her 
feet. “ How^ your hair has come off'! 
And mine, too,” she added W'ith an- 
other sigh. 

“ It is not for myself that I cared,” 
my Lady said to Harry, Avhen the 
arson had taken his leave ; “ but am 

very much changed ? Alas ! I fear 
T is too true.” 


Madam, yon have the dearest, 
and kindest, and sweetest face in the 
world, I think,” the lad said ; and in- 
deed he thought and thinks so. 

“ Will my Lord think so when he 
comes back ? ” the lady asked with a 
sigh, and another look at her Venice 
glass. “ Suppose he should think as 
you do, sir, that I am hideous , — yes, 
you said hideous, — he will cease to 
care for me. ’T is all men care for in 
women, our little beauty. Why did 
he select me from among my sisters '? 
’T was only for that. We reign but 
for a day or two : and be sure that 
Vashti knew^ Esther Avas coming.” 

“ Madam,” said Mr. Esmond, 
“Ahasuems Avas the Grand Turk, 
and to change Avas the manner of his 
country, and according to his laAV.” 

“ You are all Grand Turks for that 
matter,” said my Lady, “ or Avould be 
if you could. Come, E rank, come, my 
child. You are aacII, praised be Heav- 
en. Your locks arc not thinned by 
this dreadful small-pox : nor your 
poor face scarred, — is it, my angel 1 ” 

Frank began to shout and Avhimper 
at the idea of such a misfortune. 
From the very earliest time the young 
Lord had been taught to admire his 
beauty by his mother : and esteemed 
it as highly as any reigning toast 
A'alued hers. 

One day, as he himself Avas recov- 
ering from his fever and illness, a 
pang of something like shame shot 
across young Esmond’s breast, as he 
remembered that he had ncA^er once 
during his illness given a thought to 
the poor girl at the smithy, Avhose red 
cheeks but a month ago he had been 
so eager to see. Poor Nancy ! her 
cheeks had shared the fate of roses, 
and Averc Avithered noAv. She had 
taken the illness on the same day Avith 
Esmond, — she and her brother Avere 
both dead of the small-pox, and bur- 
ied under the CastlcAvood ycAv-trees. 
There Avas no bright face looking 
noAV from the garden, or to cheer the 
old smith at his lonely fireside. Es- 
mond Avould have liked to have kissed 
her in her shroud (like the lass in 


THE HTSTOEY OF HENKY ESMOND. 


57 


Mr. Prior’s pretty poem) ; but she 
rested many a foot below the ground, 
Avheii Esmond after his malady first 
trod on it. 

Doctor Tuslier brought the ncAvs 
of this calamity, about which Harry 
Esmond longed to ask, but did not 
like. lie said almost the whole vil- 
lage had been stricken with the pesti- 
lence ; seventeen persons Avere dead 
of it, among them mentioning the 
names of poor Nancy and her little 
brother. Ho did not fail to say how 
thankful avc survivors ought to be. 
It being this man’s business to flatter 
and make sermons, it must be OAvned 
that he Avas most industrious in it, 
and Avas doing the one or the other all 
day. 

And so Nancy Avas gone ; and Har- 
ry Esmond blushed that he had not a 
single tear for her, and fell to compos- 
ing an elegy in Latin verses over the 
rustic little beauty. He bade the 
dryads mourn and the river-nymphs 
deplore her. As her father folloAved 
the calling of Vulcan, he said that 
surely she Avas like a daughter of Ve- 
nus, though SievcAvright’s Avife was 
an ugly shrcAV, as he remembered to 
liaA^e heard afierAvards. He made a 
long face, but, in truth, felt scarcely 
more sorroAvfnl than a mute at a 
funeral. These first passions of men 
and Avomen are mostly abortiA^e ; 
and are dead almost before they are 
born. Esmond could repeat, to his 
last day, some of the doggerel lines 
in Avhich his muse hcAvailed his pretty 
lass ; not Avithout shame to remember 
hoAv bad the verses Avere, and Iioav 
good he thought them ; hoAv false the 
grief, and yet hoAv he Avas rather 
proud of it is an error, surely, to 
talk of the simplicity of youth. I 
think no persons are more hy])Ocriti- 
cal, and have a more affected behavior 
to one another, than the young. 
They deceive themseh^es and each 
other Avith artifices that do not im- 
pose upon men of the Avorld ; and so 
AVC get to understand truth better, 
and groAV simpler as avc groAV older. 

'When my Lady heard of the fate 
3 * 


Avhich had bcfldlen poor Nancy, she 
said nothing so long as Tusher Avas 
by, but Avhen he Avas gone, she took 
Harry Esmond’s hand and said, — 

“ Harry, I beg your pardon for 
those cruel Avords I used on the night 
you Avere taken ill. I am shocked at 
the fate of the poor creature, and am 
sure that nothing had happened of 
that Avhich, in my anger, 1 charged 
you. And the very first day Ave go 
out, you must take me to the black- 
smith, and AA'C must see if there is any- 
thing I can do to console the poor old 
man. Poor man ! to lose both his 
children ! What should I do Avithout 
mine 1 ” 

And this Avas, indeed, the very first 
Avalk Avhich my Lady took, leaning on 
Esmond’s arm, after her illness. But 
her visit bi'ought no consolation to the 
old father; and he shoAved no soft- 
ness or desire to speak. “The Lord 
gave and took uAvay,” he said ; and he 
kncAv Avhat His servant’s duty Avas. 
He Avanted for nothing, — less noAV 
than CA'cr before, as there Averc fcAver 
mouths to feed. He Avished her Lady- 
ship and Master Esmond good morn- 
ing, — he hadgroAvn tall in his illness, 
and Avas but very little marked ; and 
Avith this and a surly boAV, he AA'cnt in 
from the smithy to the house, leaving 
my Lady soincAvhat silenced and 
shamefaced, at the door. He had a 
handsome stone put up for his tAvo 
children, Avhich may be seen in Castlc- 
Avood churchyard to this very day ; 
and before a year Avas out his own 
name Avas upon the stone. In the 
])rescncc of Death, that soA^creign 
ruler, a Avoman’s coquetry is scared ; 
and her jealousy Avill hardly pass the 
boundaries of that grim kingdom. 
’T is entirely of the earth that passion, 
and expires in the cold blue air, be- 
yond our sphere. 

At length, Avhen the danger AA%as 
quite OA^er, it Avas announced that my 
Lord and his daughter Avould return. 
Esmond Avell remembered the day. 
The Lady his mistress Avas in a flurry 
of fear : before my Lord came, she 
Avent into her room and returned from 


58 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


it with reddened cheeks. Her fate 
was about to be decided. Her beauty 
was gone, — was her reign, too, over ? 
A minute would say. My Lord came 
riding over the bridge, — he could be 
seen from the great window, clad in 
scarlet, and mounted on his gray 
liackney, — liis little daughter ambled 
by him in a bright riding-dress of blue, 
on a shining chestnut horse. My 
Lady leaned against the great mantel- 
piece, looking on, with one hand on 
licr heart, — she seemed only the 
more pale for those red marks on 
either cheek. She put her handker- 
chief to her eyes, and withdrew it, 
laughing hysterically, — the cloth was 
quite red with the rouge when slie 
took it away. She ran to her room 
again, and came back with pale 
cheeks and red eyes — her son in her 
liand — just as my Lord entered, ac- 
companied by young Esmond, who 
liad gone out to meet his protector, 
and to hold his stirruj) as he descend- 
ed from horseback. 

“ What, Harry, boy ! ” my Lord 
said, good-naturedly, “ you look as 
gaunt as a greyhound. The small- 
pox has n’t improved j’our beauty, 
and your side of the ho^jt^c had n’t 
never too much of it — ho, lio ! ” 

And he laughed, and sprang to 
the ground Avith no small agility, 
looking handsome and red, Avith a 
jolly face and broAvn hair, like a Beef- 
eater ; Esmond kneeling again, as 
soon as his patron had descended, per- 
formed his homage, and then Avent 
to greet the little Beatrix, and help 
her from her horse. 

“ Eic ! how yelloAv you look,” she 
said ; “ and there arc one, tAvo, red 
holes in your face ” ; Avhich, indeed, 
Avas very true ; Harry Esmond’s harsh 
countenance bearing, as long as it 
continued to be a human face, the 
marks of the disease. 

JMy Lord laughed again in high 
good-humor. 

“ H it ! ” said he, Avith one of his 

usual oaths, “ the little slut sees CA^ery- 
thing. She saAv the DoAvager’s paint 
t’other day, and asked her Avhy she 


Avore that red stuff, — did n’t you, 
Trix ■? and the ToAver ; and St. 
James’s ; and the play ; and the 
Prince George, and the Princess Anne, 
— did n’t you, Trix ” 

“ They are both A'cry htt, and smelt 
of brandy,” the child said. 

Papa roared Avith laughing. 

“Brandy!” he said. “And hoAV 
do you knoAA", Miss Pert'? ” 

“ Because your Lordship smells of 
it after supper, Avhen I embrace you 
before you go to bed,” said the young 
lady, Avho, indeed, Avas as pert as her 
father said, and looked as beauti- 
ful a little gj'psy as eyes ever gazed 
on. 

“ And noAv for my Lady,” said my 
Lord, going up the stairs, and passing 
under the tapestry curtain that hung 
before the draAving-room door. Es- 
mond remembered that noble figure, 
handsomely arrayed in scarlet. With- 
in the lastfcAV months he himself had 
grown from a boy to a man, and with 
his figure his thoughts had shot up, 
and groAvn manly. 

My Lady’s countenance, of Avhich 
Harry Esmond Avas accustomed to 
Avatch the changes, and Avith a solici- 
tous affection to note and interpret 
the signs of gladness or care, Avore a 
sad and depressed look for many 
AATcks after her lord’s return : during 
Avhieh it seemed as if, by caresses and 
entreaties, she strove to Avin him back 
from some ill-humor he had, and 
Avhich he did not choose tc throAv off. 
In her eagerness to please him she 
practised a hundred of those arts 
Avhich had formerly charmed him, 
but Avhich seemed iioav to liuA-e lost 
their potency. Her songs did not 
amuse him ; and she hushed them 
and the children Avhen in his pres- 
ence. My Lord sat silent at his din- 
ner, drinking greatly, his lady op])0- 
site to him, looking furtively' at his 
face, though also speechless. Her 
silence annoyed him as much as her 
speech ; and he Avould peevishly, and 
Avith an oath, ask her Avhy' she held 
her tongue and looked so glum ; or, 
he Avould roughly cheek her Avhen 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


59 


speaking:, and bid her not talk non- 
sense. It seemed as if, since his re- 
turn, nothings she could do or say 
could please him. 

When a master and mistress are at 
strife in a house, the subordinates in 
the family take the one side or the 
other. Harry Esmond stood in so 
g^reat fear of my Lord, that he would 
run a league barefoot to do a message 
for him ; but his attachment for Lady 
Esmond was such a passion of grate- 
ful regard, that to spare her a grief, 
or to do her a service, he would have 
given his life daily : and it was by 
the very depth and intensity of this 
regard that he began to divine how 
unhappy his adored lady’s life was, 
and that a secret care (for she never 
spoke of her anxieties) Avas weighing 
upon her. 

Can any one, Avho has passed 
through the world and watched the 
nature of men and women there, 
doubt Avhat had befallen her ? I 
have seen, to be sure, some people 
carry down with them into old age 
the actual bloom of their youthful 
love, and I know that Mr. Thomas 
Parr lived to be a hundred and sixty 
years old. But, for all that, three- 
score and ten is the age of men, and 
few get beyond it ; and ’t is certain 
that a man who marries for mere 
beaux yeux, as my Loi’d did, considers 
this part of the contract at an end 
when the Avoman ceases to fulfil hers, 
and his lov^e does not survive her 
beauty. I knoAV ’t is often otheinvise, 

I say; and can think (as most men 
in their own experience may) of many 
a house, Avhere, lighted in early years, 
the sainted lamp of love hath never 
been extinguished ; but so there is 
Mr. Parr, and so there is the great 
giant at the fair that is eight feet 
higli, — exceptions to men, — and that 
poor lamp Avhereof I speak, that lights 
at first the nuptial chamber, is extin- 
guished by a hundred Avinds and 
draughts down the chimney, or sput- 
ters out for AAmnt of feeding. And 
then — and then it is Chloe, in the 
dark, stark aAvake, and Strephon 


snoring unheeding ; or vice versa, ’t is 
poor Sti’cphon that has married a 
heartless jilt, and aAV'oke out of that 
absurd vision of conjugal felicity, 
Avhich Avas to last forever, and is over 
like any other dream. One and other 
has made his bed, and so must lie in 
it, until that final day Avhen life ends, 
and they sleep se])arate. 

About this time young Esmond, 
Avho had a knack of stringing Axrses, 
turned some of Ovid’s Epistles into 
rhymes, and brought them to his 
lady for her delectation. Those 
Avliich treated of forsaken Avomen 
touched her immensely, Harry re- 
marked ; and Avhen (Euone called af- 
ter Paris, and Media bade Jason come 
back again, the Lady of CastlcAvood 
sighed, and said she thought that 
part of the A'erses Avas the most pleas- 
ing. Indeed, she Avould have chopped 
up the Dean, her old father, in order 
to bring. her husband back again. 
But her beautiful Jason Avas gone, as 
beautiful Jasons Avill go, and the 
poor enchantress had never a spell to 
keep him. 

My Lord Avas only sulky ’as long 
as his Avife’s anxious face or behavior 
seemed to upbraid him. When she 
had got to master these, and to shoAV 
an outAvardly cheerful countenance 
and behaAdor, her husband’s good- 
humor returned partially, and he 
SAvore and stormed no longer at din- 
nci', but laughed sometimes, and 
yaAvned unrestrainedly ; absenting 
himself often from home, inviting 
more company thither, passing the 
greater part of his days in the hunt- 
ing-field, or OA^er the bottle as before ; 
but Avith this difference, that the poor 
Avife could no longer see uoav, as she 
had done formerly, the light of love 
kindled in his eyes. He AV'as Avith 
her, but that flame Avas out : and that 
once Avelcome beacon no more shone 
there. 

What Avere this lady’s feelings Avhen 
forced to admit the truth Avhereof her 
foreboding glass had given her only 
too true Avarning, that Avith her beauty 
her reign had ended, and the days of 


60 


THE HISTOEY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


her love were over ? What docs a 
seaman do in a storm if mast and 
rudder are carried away ? He sliips 
a jurymast, and steers as he best can 
witli an oar. What happens if your j 
roof falls in a tempest ? After the j 
first stun of the calamity the sufferer 
starts up, gropes around to see that 
the cliildren are safe, and puts them 
under a shed out of the rain. If the 
palace burns down, you take shelter 
in the barn. What man’s life is not 
overtaken by one or more of these 
tornadoes that send us out of the 
course, and ding us on rocks to shel- 
ter as best we may ? 

When Lady CastleAvood found that 
her great ship had gone doAvn, she 
began as best she might, after she had 
rallied from the effects of the loss, to 
put out small ventures of happiness ; 
and hope for little gains and returns, 
as a merchant on ’Change, incloci/is 
pauperiem jxiti, having lost his thou- 
sands, embarks a few guineas upon 
the next ship. She laid out her all upon 
her children, indulging them beyond 
all measure, as Avas inevitable Avith 
one of her kindness of disposition ; 
giving all her thoughts to their avcI- 
hire, — learning, that she might teach 
them ; and improving her OAvn many 
natural gifts and feminine accomplish- j 
ments, that she might impart them to 
her young ones. To be doing good 
for soine one else, is the life of most 
good Avomen. They are exuberant 
of kindness, as it Av^ere, and must im- 
part it to some one. She made herself 
a good scholar of French, Italian, and 
Latin, having been grounded in these 
by her father in her youth ; hiding 
these gifts from her husband out of 
fear, perhaps, that they should offend 
him, for my Lord Avas no bookman, — 
pish’d anti psha’d at the notion of 
learned ladies, and Avould have been 
angry that his Avife conld construe out 
of a Latin book of Avhich he could 
scarce understand tAvo words. Young 
Fsajond Avas u>her, or house tutor, 
under her or OA'cr her, as it might 
happen. Luring my Lord’s many 
absences, these school-days Avould go 


on uninterruptedly : the mother and 
daughter learning Avith surprising 
quickness ; the latter by lits and starts 
only, and as suited her AvayAvard 
humor. As for the little lord, it must 
be oAvned that he took after his hither 
in the matter of learning, — liked 
marbles and play, and the great horse 
and the little one Avhich his father 
brought him, and on Avhich he took 
him out a-hunting, a great deal better 
than Corderius and Lily ; marshalled 
the village boys, and had a little court 
of them, already flogging them, and 
domineering over them Avith a fine 
imperious spirit that made his father 
laugh Avhen he beheld it, and his 
mother fondly Avarn him. The cook 
had a son, the Avoodman had tAvo, the 
big lad at the porter’s lodge took his 
cuffs and his orders. Doctor ’rusher 
said he Avas a young nobleman of gal- 
lant spirit; and Harry Esmond, avIio 
Avashis tutor, and eight years his little 
Lordship’s senior, had hard Avork 
sometimes to keep his OAvn temper, and 
hold his authority over his rebellious 
little chief and kinsman. 

In a couple of years after that ca- 
lamity had befallen Avhich had robbed 
Lady CastlcAvood of a little — a very 
little — of her beauty, and her careles*s 
husband’s heart (if the truth must be 
told, my Lady had found not only that 
her reign A\as over, but that her suc- 
I ccssor Avas ap) minted, a Princess of a 
noble house in Drury Lane somcAvhere, 
Avho Avas installed and visited by my 
Lord at the tOAvn eight miles off — 
pudet liac opprohria dicer e nobis ), — a 
great change had taken place in her 
mind, Avhich, by struggles only knoAvn 
to herself, at least never mentioned to 
any one, and unsuspected by the per- 
son Avho caused the pain she endured, 
— had been schooled into such a con- 
dition as she could not very likely 
have imagined ])Ossib!e a score of 
months since, belore her misfortunes 
had begun. 

She had oldened in that time as 
pco])le do Avho suffer silently great 
mental pain ; and learned much that 
she had never suspected before. Slic 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


61 


was tanr,^ht by that bitter teacher 
IMisfortuue. A eliilJ the mother of 
other children, but two years back 
lier lord was a "od to her ; his words 
her law ; his smile her sunshine : his 
lazy commonplaces listened to ea- 
gerly, as if they were words of wisdom, 
— all his Avishes and freaks obeyed 
with a servile devotion. She had been 
my Lord’s chief slave and blind wor- 
shipper. Some Avomcn bear further 
than this, and submit not only to 
neglect but to unfaithfulness too, — 
but here this lady’s allegiance had 
failed her. Her spirit rebelled, and 
disownctl any more obedience. First 
she had to bear in secret the passion 
of losing the adored object ; then to 
get a further initiation, and to find 
this worshipped being Avas but a 
clumsy idol : then to admit the silent 
truth, that it Avas she Avas superior, 
and not the monarch her master : that 
she had thoughts Avhich his brains 
coidd never master, and Avas the better 
of the two ; quite separate from my 
Lord although tied to him, and bound, 
as almost all people (save a A^ery 
happy few), to Avork all her life alone. 
My Lord sat in his chair, laughing his 
laugh, cracking his joke, his face 
flushing with Avine, — my Lady in her 
place over against him, — he ueA^cr 
suspecting that his superior Avas there, 
in the calm resigned lady, cold of 
manner, Avith downcast eyes. When 
he Avas merry in his cups, he Avould 
make jokes about her coldness, and, 

“ D it, noAV my Lady is gone, Ave 

Avill have t’other bottle,” he Avould 
say. He Avas frank enough in telling 
his thoughts, such as they AV’cre. 
There Avas little mystery about my 
Lord’s Avords or actions. His Fair 
Hosamond did not liA^c in a Labyrinth, 
like the lady of Mr. Addison’s opera, 
but paraded Avith painted cheeks and 
a tipsy retinue in the country tOAvn. 
Had slie a mind to be revemred, Lady 
CastleAvood could have found the Avay 
to her rival’s house easily enough ; and, 
if she had come Avith boAvl and dagger, 
Avoidd have been routed off the ground 
by tho enemy Avith a volley of Billings- 


gate, Avhich the fair person ahvays 
ke])t by her. 

MeaiiAvhile, it has been said, that 
for Harry Esmond his benefactress’s 
SAA'cet face had lost none of its charms. 
It had ahvays the kindest of looks 
and smiles for him, — smiles, not so 
gay and artless perhaps as those 
Avhich Lady CastlcAvood had former- 
ly Avorn, Avhen, a child herself, play- 
ing Avitli her children, her husband’s 
pleasure and authority Averc all she 
thought of; but out of her griefs and 
cares, as Avill happen, I think, Avhen 
these trials fall upon a kindly heart, 
and arc not too unbearable, grcAv up 
a number of thoughts and excellences 
Avhich had never come into existence, 
had not her sorroAv and misfortunes 
engendered them. Sure, occasion is 
the fother of most that is good in us. 
As you have seen the aAvkAvard fin- 
gers and clumsy tools of a prisoner 
cut and fashion the most delicate lit- 
tle pieces of caiwed Avork ; or achicA^e 
the most prodigious undei-ground la- 
bors, and cut through Avails of ma- 
sonry, and saAV iron bars and fetters ; 
’t is misfortune that aAvakens inge- 
nuity, or fortitude, or endurance, in 
hearts Avhere these qualities had nev- 
er come to life but for the circum- 
stance Avhich gave them a being. 

“ ’T Avas after Jason left her, no 
doubt,” Lady CastlcAA'ood once said, 
Avith one of her smiles to young Es- 
mond (avIio Avas reading to her a ver- 
sion of certain lines out of Euripides), 
“ that Medea became a learned avo- 
man and a great enchantress.” 

“And she could conjure the stars 
out of heav'en,” the young tutor add- 
ed, “ but she could not bring Jason 
back again.” 

“ What do you mean 1 ” asked my 
Lady, A'ery angry. 

“ Indeed I mean nothing,” said 
the other, “ saA'e Avhat I h'lve read in 
books. What should I knoAv about 
such matters ? 1 have seen no avo- 

man save you and little Beatrix, and 
the parson’s Avife and my late mis- 
tress, and your Ladyship’s Avomau 
here.” 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


G2 


“ The men who wrote your books,” 
saj’s my Lady, “ your Horaces, and 
Ovids, Knd Vir<i;ils, as far as I know 
of them, all thonglit ill of us, as all 
the heroes they wrote about used ns 
basely. We Avere bred to be slaves 
ahvays ; and even of our own times, 
as you are still the only law;j^ivcrs, I 
think our sermons seem to say that 
the best Avoman is she AA'ho bears her 
master’s chains most gracefully. ’T is 
a pity there are no nunneries permit- 
ted by our church : Beatrix and I 
Avould flv to one, and end our days in 
peace there UAvay from you.” 

“ And is there no slaveiy in a con- 
A'ent ? ” says Esmond. 

“ At least, if Avomen are slaves 
there, no one sees them,” ansAA^ered 
the lady. “ They don’t Avork in street 
gangs with the public to jeer them : 
and if they sutler, suffer in private. 
Here comes my Lord liome from 
hunting. Take away the books. My 
Lord docs not love to sec them. Les- 
sons are OAcr for to-day, Mr. Tutor.” 
And AA'ith a courtesy and a smile she 
would end this sort of collo(juy. 

“ Indeed “Mr. Tutor,” as\ny La- 
dy called Esmond, had noAv business 
enough on his hands in CastlcAvood 
House. He had three pupils, his 
Lady and lier tAvo children, at Avhose 
lessons she Avould ahvays be present ; 
besides Avriting my Lord’s letters, and 
arranging his iiccompts for him, — 
Avhen these could be got from Es- 
mond’s indolent patron. 

Of the pupils the tAVO young peo- 
ple AA'erc but lazy scholars, and as my 
Lady Avould admit no discipline such 
as AA^as then in use, my Lord’s son 
only learned Avhat he liked, AAdiich 
Avas but little, and ncA-er to his life’s 
end could be got to construe more 
than six lines of Virgil. Mistress 
Beatrix chattered French prettily 
from a very early age ; and sang 
SAvcetly, but this Avas from her moth- 
er’s teaching, — not Harry Esmond’s, 
Avho could scarce distinguish betAvecn 
“ Green Sleeves ” and “Lillabullero ” ; 
although he had no greater delight in 
life than to hear the ladies sing. He 


I secs them uoav (Avill he cat;* forget 
Ithem?) as they used to sit together 
j of the summer evenings, — the tAvo 
I golden heads OA’cr tlie ])agc, — tlie 
child’s little hand, and the mother’s 
beating the time, Avith their voices 
rising and falling in unison. 

But if the children Avere careless, 
’t Avas a Avondcr hoAV eagerly tlie 
mother learnt from her young tutor, 
— and taught him too. The hapjiicst 
instinctive faculty Avas this lady’s, — 
a faculty for discerning latent beau- 
ties and hidden graces of books, espe- 
cially books of poetry, as in a Avalk 
she AA^ould spy out field-floAA-ers and 
make posies of them, such as no oth- 
er hand could. She Avas a critic, 
not by reason, but by feeling ; the 
SAveetest commentator of those books 
they read together ; and the happiest 
hours of young Esmond’s life, per- 
haps, AA'crc those passed in the com- 
pany of this kind mistress and her 
children. 

These happy days AA'^cre to end 
soon, hoAvcA’cr ; and it Avas by the 
Lady CastlcAvood’s OAA'n decree that 
they Avere brought to a conclusion. 
It happened about Christmas-time, 
Harry Esmond being noAv past six- 
teen years of age, that his old com- 
rade, adA'ersary, and friend, Tom 
Tushcr, returned from his school in 
London, a fair, AV'cll-groAvn, and stur- 
dy lad, AA'ho Avas about to enter col- 
lege, Avith an exhibition from his 
school, and a prospect of after promo- 
tion in the church. Tom Tushcr’s 
talk AA'as of nothing but Cambridge 
noAV ; and the boys, Avho AA cre good 
friends, examined each other eagerly 
about their progress in books. Tom 
had learned some Greek and llebreAv, 
besides Latin, in AA’hich he AA as pretty 
Avell skilled, and also had given him- 
self to mathematical studies under his 
father’s guidance, aa’Iio Avas a proficient 
in those sciences, of Avhich Esmond 
kneAv nothing; nor could he Avrite 
Latin so AA^ell as Tom, though he 
could talk it better, having been 
taught by his dear friend the Jesuit 
Father, for Avhose memory the lad 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


63 


ever retained the warmest affection, 
readinf^ liis books, keeping his swords 
clean in the little crypt where the 
Father had shown them to Esmond 
on the night of his visit ; and often 
of a night sitting in the chaplain’s 
room, wliich he inhabited, over his 
books, his verses, and rubbish, with 
which the lad occupied himself, he 
would look up at the Avindow, think- 
ing he wished it might open and let 
in the good Father. lie had come 
and passed aAvay like a dream ; but 
for the SAvords and books Harry 
might almost think the Father Avas 
an imagination of his mind, — and for 
tAA'o letters Avhich had come to him, 
one from abroad full of advice and 
affection, another soon after he had 
been confirmed by the Bishop of 
liexton, in Avhich Father Holt de- 
plored his falling aAvay. But Harry 
Esmond felt so confident noAV of his 
being in the right, and of his OAvn 
poAvers as a casuist, that he thought 
he Avas able to face the Father himself 
in argument, and possibly convert 
him. 

To Avork upon the faith of her 
young pupil, Esmond’s kind mistress 
sent to the library of her father the 
Dean, Avho had been distinguished in 
the disputes of the late king’s reign ; 
and, an old soldier noAv, had Imng up 
his AA^eapons of controversy. These 
he tookdoAvn from his shelves Avilling- 
ly for young Esmond, Avhom he 
benefited by his own personal advice 
and instruction. It did not require 
much persuasion to induct the boy to 
Avorship Avith his beloved mistress. 
And the good old nonjuring Dean 
flattered himself Avith a conversion 
Avhich, in truth, Avas OAving to a much 
gentler and fairer persuader. 

Under her Ladyship’s kind eyes 
(my Lord’s being sealed in sleep 
pretty generally), Esmond read many 
volumes of the Avorks of the famous 
British DiA’ines of the last age, and 
Avas familiar Avith \Yakc and Sherlock, 
Avith Stillingflect and Patrick. His 
mistress ncA^er tired to listen or to 
read, to pursue the texts Avitli fond 


comments, to urge those points Avhich 
her fancy dwelt on most, or her reason 
deemed most important. Since the 
death of her father the Dean, this 
lady hath admitted a certain latitude 
of theological reading Avhich her 
orthodox father Avould never have 
alloAVcd ; his favorite Avriters appeal- 
ing more to reason and anti(piity 
than to the passions or imaginations 
of their readers, so that the Avorks of 
Bishop Taylor, nay, those of i\lr. 
Baxter and Mr. LaAv, have in reality 
found more favor Avith my Lady 
CastleAvood than the severer volumes 
of our great English schoolmen. 

In later life, at the UniA'crsity, Es- 
mond reopened the controversy, and 
pursued it in a very different manner, 
Avhen his patrons had determined for 
him that he Avas to embrace the eccle- 
siastical life. But though his mis- 
tress’s heart Avas in this calling, his 
OAvn never Avas much. After that 
first fervor of simple dcAmtion, Avhich 
his beloved Jesuit priest had inspired 
in him, speculatiA'e theology took but 
little liold upon the young man’s 
mind. When his early credulity Avas 
disturbed, and his saints and virgins 
taken out of his Avorship, to rank 
little higher than the divinities of 
Olympus, his belief became acquies- 
cence rather than ardor; and he 
made his mind up to assume the 
cassock and bands, as another man 
does to Avear a breastplate and jack- 
boots, or to mount a merchant’s desk, 
for a livelihood, and from obedience 
and necessity rather than from choice. 
There were scores of such men in Mr, 
Esmond’s time at the universities, 
Avho Avere going to the church Avith 
no better calling than his. 

When Thomas Tushcr AA'as gone, 
a feeling of no small depression and 
disquiet fell upon young Esmond, of 
Avhich, though he did not com])lain, 
his kind mistress must haA'e divined 
the cause : for soon after she shoAved 
not only that she understood the 
reason of Harry’s melancholy, but 
could pi'OAndo a remedy for it. Her 
habit Avas thus to Avatcli, unobserved- 


64 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


ly, those to •whom duty or afFcction 
bound her, and to prevent tlicir de- 
signs, or to fulfil them, when she had 
the power. It was this lady’s dispo- 
sition to think kindnesses, and devise 
silent bounties and to scheme benevo- 
lence, for those about her. We take 
such goodness, for the most part, as 
if it was our due; the Marys who 
bring ointment for our feet get but 
little ihanks. Some of us never feel 
this devotion at all, or are moved by 
it to gratitude or acknowledgment ; 
others only recall it years after, when 
the days are past in which those 
sweet kindnesses were spent on us, 
and we offer back our return for the 
debt by a poor tardy payment of 
tears. The forgotten tones of love 
recur to us, and kind glances shine 
out of the past — 0 so bright and 
clear ! — O so longed after ! — be- 
cause they arc out of reach ; as holiday 
music from within-side a prison wall 
— or sunshine seen through the bars ; 
more prized because unattainable, — 
more bright because of the contrast 
of , present darkness and solitude, 
whence there is no escape. 

All the notice, then, which Lady 
Castlewood seemed to take of Harry 
Esmond’s melancholy, upon Tom 
Tushcr’s departure, was, by a gaycty 
unusual to her, to attempt to dispel 
his gloom. She made his three 
scholars (herself being the chief one) 
more cheerful than ever they had 
been before, and more docile, too, all 
of them learning and reading much 
more than they had been accustomed 
to do. “ For who knows,” said the 
lady, “ what may happen, and wheth- 
er we may be able to keep such a 
learned tutor long ? ” 

Frank Esmond said he for his part 
did not want to learn any more, and 
cousin Harry might shut up his book 
whenever he liked, if he would come 
out a-fishing ; and little Heatrix de- 
clared she Avould send for Tom Tush- 
cr, and he would be glad enough to 
come to Castlewood, if Harry chose 
to go away. 

At last comes a messenger from 


Winchester one day, htarcr of a 
letter, with a great bla^K seal, from 
the Dean there, to say that his sister 
was dead, and had left her fortune of 
£ 2,000 among her six nieces, the 
Dean’s daughters; and many a time 
since has Harry Esmond recalled the 
flushed face and eager look where- 
with, after this intelligence, his kind 
lady regarded him. She did not pre- 
tend to any grief about the deceased 
relative, from whom she and her fam- 
ily had been many years parted. 

When my Lord heard of the news, 
he also did not make any very long 
face. “ The money Avill come very 
handy to furnish the music-room and 
the cellar, which is getting low, and 
buy your Ladyship a coach and a 
couple of horses that will do indifler- 
ent to ride or for the coach. And, 
Beatrix, you shall have a spinet : 
and, Frank, you shall have a little 
horse from Hexton Fair ; and, Harry, 
yoTi shall have five pounds to buy some 
books,” saitl my Lord, who was gen- 
erous with his own, and indeed with 
other iblks’ money. “ I Avish your 
aunt Avould die once a year, kachcl ; 
Ave could spend your money and all 
your sisters’, too.” 

“ I have but one aunt, — and — and 
I haA’e another use for the money, 
my Lord,” says my Lady, turning 
A'ery red. 

” Another use, my dear ; and Avhat 
do you know about money 7 ” cries 
my Lord. “And Avhat the devil is 
there that I don’t give you Avhich you 
Avant 7 ” 

“I intend to giA*c this money — 
can’t you fancy Iioav, my Lord 7 ” 

My Lord sAvore one of his large 
oaths that he did not knoAV in the 
least Avhat she meant. 

“I intend it for Harry Esmond to 
go to college. Cousin Harry,” says 
my Lady, “ you must n’t stay longer 
in this dull place, but make a name 
to yourself, and for us too, Harry.” 

“ D n it, Harr}’- ’s avcII enough 

here,” says my Lord, for a moment 
looking rather sulky. 

“Is Harry going away 7 You 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ES]MOND. 


G5 


don’t mean to say you will go away ? ” 
cry out Frank and Beatrix at one 
breath. 

“ But he will come back : and this 
will always be his home,” cries my 
Lady, with blue eyes looking- a celes- 
tial kindness : “ and his scholars 
will always love him ; won’t they 1 ” 

“ By G — d, llachel, you ’re a good 
woman ! ” says my Lord, seizing my 
Lady’s hand, at which she blushed 
very much, and shrank back, putting 
her children before her. “ I wish you 

• joy, my kinsman,” he continued, giv- 
ing Harry Esmond a hearty slap on 
the shoulder. “ I won’t balk your 
luck. Go to Cambridge, boy ; and 

* when Tusher dies you shall have the 
living here, if you arc not hotter pro- 
vided by that time. AYe ’ll furnish 
the dining-room and buy the horses 
another year. I’ll give thee a nag 
out of the stable : take any one except 
my hack and the bay gelding and the 
coach-horses ; and God speed thee, my 
boy ! ” 

“Have the sorrel, Harry; ’t is a 
good one. Father says ’t is the best 
in the stable,” says little Frank, clap- 
ping his hands, and jumping up. 
“ Let ’s come and sec him in the sta- 
ble.” And the other, in his delight 
and eagerness, was for leaving the 
room tliat instant to arrange about 
his journey. 

The Lady Castlewood looked after 
him with sad penetrating glances. 
“ He wishes to be gone already, my 
Lord,” said she to her husband. 

The young man hung back abashed. 
“ Indeed, I would stay forever if your 
Ladyship bade me,” he said. 

“ And thou wouldst be a fool for 
thy pains, kinsman,” said my Lord. 
“ Tut, tut, man. Go and see the 
world. Sow thy wild oats ; and take 
the best luck that Fate sends thee. 
I wish I were a boy again that I 
might go to college, and taste the 
Trumpington ale.” 

“ Ours, indeed, is hut a dull home,” 
cries my Lady, with a little of sad- 
ness and, maybe, of satire in her 
voice ; “ an old glum house, half 


ruined, and the rest only half fur- 
nished ; a woman and two children 
are but poor company for men that 
are accustomed to better. We are 
o!ily fit to be your Worship’s hand- 
maids, and yonr ])leasurcs must of ne- 
cessity lie elsewhere than at home.” 

“ Curse me, Rachel, if I know now 
whether thou art in earnest or not,” 
said my Lord. 

“ In earnest, my Lord ! ” says she, 
still clinging by one of her children. 
“ Is there much subject here for 
joke ? ” And she made him a grand 
courtesy, and, giving a stately look 
to Harry Esmond, which seemed to 
say, “Remember; you understand 
me, thougli he docs not,” she left the 
room with her children. 

“ Since she found out that con- 
founded Hexton business,” my Lord 
said, — “ and he hanged to them that 
told her ! — she has not been the 
same woman. She, who used to be 
as humble as a milkmaid, is as proud 
as a princess,” says my Lord. “ Take 
my counsel, Harry Esmond, and keep 
clear of women. Since I have liad 
anything to do with the jades, they 
have given me notliing but disgust. 
I had a wife at Tangier, with whom, 
as she could n’t speak a word of my 
language, you ’d have thought I might 
lead a (piict life. But she tried to 
poison me, because she was jealous of 
a Jew girl. There was your aunt, 
for aunt she is, — Aunt Jezebel, a 
pretty life your father led with her ! 
and here ’s my Lady. AVhen I saw 
her on a pillion riding behind the 
Dean her father, she looked and was 
such a baby that a sixpenny doll 
might have pleased her. And now 
you see what she is, — hands off, 
highty-tighty, high and mighty, an 
empress could n’t Ixj grander. Pass 
us the tankard, Harry my boy. A 
mug of beer and a toast at morn, 
says my host. A toast and a mug 

of beer at noon, says my dear. D n 

it, Polly loves a mug of ale, too, and 
laeed with brandy, by Jove ! ” In- 
deed, I suppose they drank it togeth- 
er; for my Lord was often thick in 
E 


66 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


his spcecli at midday dinner ; and at 
night at su})pcr, speecdilcss altogctliei*. 

Harry Esmond’s departure resolved 
upon, it seemed as if the Lady (’as- 
tlewood, too, rejoiced to lose him ; 
for more than once, when the lad, 
ashamed perhaps at his OAvn secret 
eagerness to go away (at any rate 
stricken with sadness at the idea of 
leaving those from whom he had re- 
ceived so many proofs of love and 
kindness inestimable), tried to ex- j 
press to his mistress his sense of , 
gratitude to her, and his sorrow at I 
quitting those who had so sheltered i 
and tended a nameless and houseless 
orphan. Lady Castlewood cut short his 
protests of love and his lamentations, 
and would hear of no grief, hut only 
look forward to Harry’s fame and 
prospects in life. “ Our little legacy 
will keep you for four years like "a 
gentleman. Heaven’s Trovidcnce, 
your own genius, industry, honor, 
must do the rest for you. Castle- 
wood will always he a home for you ; 
and these children, whom you have j 
taught and loved, will not forget to I 
love you. And, Harry,” said she i 
(and tliis Avas the only time Avhen i 
she spoke Avith a tear in her eye, or 
a tremor in her A'oicc), “it may hap- 
pen in the course of nature that I 
shall be called away from them ; and 
their father — and — and they Avill 
need true friends and protectors. 
Promise me that you Avill be true to 
them — as — as I think I haA'C been 
to you, — and a mother’s fond prayer 
and blessing go Avith you.” 

“ So help me God, madam, I Avill,” 
said Harry Esmond, falling on Ids 
knees, and kissing the hand of his 
dearest mistress. “ If you Avill haA'C 
me stay noAv, I Avill. What matters 
Avhether or no I make my Avay in life, 
or Avhether a poor bastard dies as 
unknoAvn as he is iioav ? ’T is enough 
that I haA'c your love and kindness 
surely ; and to make you happy is 
duty enough for me.” 

“ Happy ! ” says she ; “ but indeed 
I ought to be, Avith my children, 
and — ” 


“ Not happy ! ” cried Esmond (for 
he kncAv Avhat her life Avas, though 
he and his mistress never spoke a 
AA’ord conceridng it). “ If not hap- 
piness, it may be ease. Let me stay 
and Avork for you, — let me stay and 
be your servant.” 

“ Indeed, you are best aAvay,” said 
my Lady, laughing, as she put her 
hand on the boy’s head for a mo- 
ment. “ ITou shall stay in no such 
dull place. Y"ou shall go to college 
and distinguish yourself as becomes 
your name. That is Iioav you shall 
please me best; and — and if my 
children Avant you, or I Avant you, 
you shall come to us ; and I knoAV 
Ave may count on you.” 

“ May Heaven forsake me if you 
may not ! ” Harry said, getting up 
from his knee. 

“ And my knight longs for a drag- 
on this instant that he may fight,” 
said my Lady, laughing ; Avhich 
speech made Harry Esmond start, 
and turn red ; for indeed the very 
thought AA’as in his mind, that ho 
Avould like that some chance should 
immediately ha])pcn Avhereby he might 
shoAV his devotion. And it pleased 
him to think that his lady had called 
him “ her knight,” and often and 
often he recalled this to his mind, and 
prayed that he might be her true 
knight, too. 

My Lady’s bedchamber AvindoAv 
looked out OA'cr the country, and you 
could see from it the purple hills be- 
yond CastlcAvood village, the green 
common betAvixt thiU and the Hall, 
and the old bridge Avhich crossed over 
the river. When Harry Esmond 
AA'cnt aAvay for Cambridge, little 
Frank ran alongside his horse as far 
as the bridge, aiul there Harry stopped 
for a moment, and looked back at the 
house Avhere the best ])art of his life 
had been passed. It lay before him 
Avith its gray familiar toA\-ers, a ]»in- 
nacle or tAvo shining in the sun, the 
buttresses and terrace Avails casting 
great blue shades on the grass. And 
Harry remembered, all his life after, 
hoAv he saAv his mistress at the Avim 


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1 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


67 


clow looking out on him in a white 
robe, the little Beatrix’s chestnut 
curls resting at her mother’s side. 
Both waved a farewell to him, and 
little Frank sobbed to leav^e him. 
Yes, he looiild l)e his lady’s true 
knight, he vowed in his heart ; he 
waved her an adieu with his hat. 
The village people had Good-by to 
say to him too. All knew that Mas- 
ter Hany was going to college, and 
most of them had a kind word and a 
look of farewell. 1 do not stop to say 
what adventures he began to im- 
agine, or what career to devise for 
himself before he had ridden three 
miles from liome. He had not read 
Monsieur Gallaud’s ingenious Ara- 
bian tales as yet ; but be sure that 
there are other folks who build castles 
in the air, and have fine hopes, and 
kick them down too, besides honest 
Alnaschar. 

— • — 

CHAPTER X. 

r GO TO CAMBRIDGE, AND DO BUT 
LITTLE GOOD THERE. 

My Lord, who said he should like 
to revisit the old haunts of his youth, 
kindly accompanied Harry Esmond 
in his first journey to Cambridge. 
Their road lay through London, 
where my Lord Viscount would also 
have Harry stay a few days to show 
him the pleasures of the town before 
he entered upon his university studies, 
and whilst here Harry’s patron con- 
ducted the young man to my Lady 
Dowager’s house at Chelsey near 
London : the kind lady at Castle- 
wood having specially ordered that 
the young gentleman and the old 
should pay a respectful visit in that 
quarter. 

Her Ladyship the Viscountess 
Dowager occupied a handsome new 
house in Chelsey, Avith a garden be- 
hind it, and facing the river, always a 
bright and animated sight with its 
swarms of sailors, barges, and wher- 
ries. Harry laughed at recognizing 


in the parlor the well-remembered old 
piece of Sir Peter Lely, wherein his 
father’s widow Avas represented as a 
Aurgiii huntress, armed Avith a gilt 
bow-and-arrow, and encumbered only 
Avith that small quantity of drapery 
Avhich it Avould seem the virgins in 
King Charles’s day Averc accustomed 
to Avear. 

My Lady DOAvager had left off this 
peculiar habit of huntress Avhen she 
married. But though she Avas noAV 
considerably past sixty years of age, 
I believe she thought that airy nymph 
of the picture could still be easily rec- 
ognized in the venerable personage 
Avho gave an audience to Harry and 
his patron. 

She recciA^ed the young man Avith 
even more favor than she showed to 
the elder, for she chose to carry on 
the conversation in French, in Avhich 
my J.-ord CastlcAVOod Avas no great 
proficient, and expressed her satisfac- 
tion at finding that Mr. Esmond could 
speak fluently in that language. 
“ ’T Avas the only one fit for polite con- 
versation,” she condescended to say, 
“ and suitable to persons of high 
breeding.” 

My Lord laughed aftcrAvards, as 
the gentlemen Avent aAvay, at his kins- 
Avoman’s behavior. He said he re- 
membered the time Avhen she could 
speak English fast enough, and joked 
in his jolly Avay at the loss he had 
had of such a lovely Avife as that. 

My Lady Viscountess deigned to 
ask his Lordship ncAvs of his Avife and 
children ; she had heard that Lady 
CastlcAvood had had the small-])Ox ; 
she hoped she Avas not so very much 
disfigured as people said. 

At this remark about his Avife’s mal- 
ady, my Lord Viscount Avinced and 
turned red; but the Dowager, in speak- 
ing of the disfigurement of the young 
lady, turned to her looking-glass and 
examined her old Avrinklcd counte- 
nance in it Avith such a grin of satis- 
faction, that it Avas all her guests 
could do to refrain from laughing in 
her ancient face. 

She asked Harry Avhat his profession 


68 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


was to be ; and my Lord, saying that 
the lad was to take orders, and have 
the living of Castlcwood wlien old Dr. 
Tuslicr vacated it, she did not seem to 
show any j)articnlar anger at the no- 
tion of Harry’s hecoining a Church of 
England clergyman, nay, was rather 
glad than otherwise, that the youth 
should be so provided for. She bade 
Mr. Esmond not to forget to pay her 
a visit whenev^cr he passed through 
London, and carried her graciousness 
so far as to send a purse with twenty 
guineas for him, to the tavern at which 
iny Lord put up (the “Greyhound,” 
in Charing Cross) ; and, along with 
this welcome gift for her kinsman, she 
sent a little doll for a present to my 
Lord’s little daughter Beatrix, who 
was growing beyond the age of dolls 
by this time, and was as tall almost 
as her venerable relative. 

After seeing the town, and going to 
the plays, my Lord Castlewood and 
Esmond rode together to Cambridge, 
spending two pleasant days uj)on the 
journey. Those rapid new coaches 
were not established, as yet, that per- 
formed the whole journey between 
London and the University in a single 
day ; however, the road was pleasant 
and short enough to Harry Esmond, 
and he always gratefully remembered 
that happy holiday which his kind 
patron gave him. 

Mr. Esmond Avas entered a pen- 
sioner of Trinity College in Cam- 
bridge, to which famous college my 
Lord had also in his youth belonged. 
Dr. Montague Avas master at this 
time, and receiv^ed my Lord Viscount 
Avith great politeness : so did Mr. 
Bridge, Avho Avas appointed to be Har- 
ry’s tutor. Tom Tusher, Avho Avas 
of Emanuel College, and Avas by this 
time a junior soph, came to Avait upon 
my Lord, and to take Harry under 
his protection ; and comfortabie rooms 
being ])rovidcd for him in the great 
court close by the gate, and near to 
the famous "Mr. NeAvton’s lodgings, 
Harry’s ])atron took leave of him 
with many kind Avords and blessings, 
and an admonition to him to behave 


better at the University than my Lord 
himself had ever done. 

’Tis needless in these memoirs to 
go at any length into the particulars 
of Harry Esmond’s college career. It 
Avas like that of a hundred young gen- 
tlemen of that day. But he had the 
ill fortune to be older by a couple of 
years than most of his felloAA'-students ; 
and by his previous solitary mode of 
bringing up, the circumstances of his 
life, and the peculiar thoughtfulness 
and melancholy that had naturally en- 
gendered, he Avas, in a great measure, 
cut otF from thesocicty of comrades Avho 
AA'cre much younger and higher-spir- 
ited than he. His tutor, Avho had 
boAved doAvn to the ground, as he 
Avalked my Lord OA^cr the college 
grass-plats, changed his behaA'ior as 
soon as the nobleman’s back Avas 
turned, and Avas — at least Harry 
thought so — harsh and overbearing. 
When the lads used to assemble in 
their (jreges in hall, Harry found him- 
self alone in the midst of that little 
flock of boys; they raised a great 
laugh at him Avhen he Avas set on to 
read Latin, Avhich he did Avith the 
foreign pronunciation taught to him 
by his old master, the Jesuit, than 
Avhich he kncAv no other. Mr. Bridge, 
the tutor, made him the object of 
clumsy jokes, in Avhich he Avas fond 
of indulging. The young man’s spir- 
it AA^as chafed, and his A^anity mortified; 
and he found himself, for some time, 
as lonely in this place as CA'er he had 
been at CastleAvood, Avhither he longed 
to return. His birth Avas a source of 
shame to him, and he fancied a hun- 
dred slights and sneers from young 
and old, Avho, no doubt, had treated 
him better had he met them himself 
more frankly. And as he looks liack 
in calmer days, upon this period of 
his life, Avhich he thought so unhappy, 
he can see that his OAvn pride ami 
vanity caused no small part of the 
mortifications Avhich he attributed to 
other’s ill-Avill. The Avorld deals 
good-naturedly Avith good-natured 
people, and I never kncAv a sulky 
misanthropist Avho quarrelled Avith it. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


C9 


but it was be, and not it, that was in 
the Avrong. Tom Tushcr gave Har- 
ry plenty of good advice on this sub- 
ject, for Tom had both good sense 
and good-humor ; but Mr. Harry 
chose to treat his senior Avith a great 
deal of superb nous disdain and absurd 
scorn, and Avould by no means part 
from his darling injuries, in AAdiich, 
very likely, no man believed but him- 
self. As for honest Dr. Bridge, the 
tutor found, after a fcAv trials of Avit 
Avith the pupil, that the young man 
Avas an ugly subject for Avit, and that 
the laugh Avas often turned against 
him. This did not make tutor and 
pupil any better friends; but had, so 
far, au advantage for Esmond, that 
Mr. Bridge Avas induced to leave him 
alone ; and so long as he kept his 
chapels, and did the college exercises 
required of him. Bridge Avas content 
not to sec Harry’s glum face in his 
class, and to leave him to read and 
sulk for himself in his OAvn chamber. 

A poem or two in Latin and Eng- 
lish, Avhich Avere pronounced to have 
some merit, and a Latin oration (for 
Mr. Esmond could Avritc that lan- 
guage better than pronounce it), got 
him a little reputation both Avith the 
authorities of the University and 
amongst the young men, Avith Avhom 
he began to pass for more than he 
was Avorth. A few victories over 
their common enemy, Mr. Bridge, 
made them incline tOAvards him, and 
look upon him as the champion of 
their order against the seniors. Such 
of the lads as he took into his confi- 
dence found him not so gloomy and 
haughty as his appearance led them 
to believe ; and Don Dismallo, as he 
was called, became presently a person 
of some little importance in his col- 
lege, and Avas, as he believes, set doAvn 
by the seniors there as rather a dan- 
gerous character. 

Don Dismallo Avas a stanch young 
Jacobite, like the rest of his family ; 
gave himself many absurd airs of loy- 
alty; used to invite young friends to 
Burgundy, and give the King’s health 
oil King James’s birthday ; Avorc black 


on the day of his abdication ; fasted 
on the anniversary of King William’s 
coronation ; and performed a thousand 
absurd antics, of Avhich he smiles iioav 
to think. 

These follies caused many remon- 
strances on Tom Tusher’s part, avIio 
Avas ahvays a friend to the poAvers 
that be, as Esmond was ahvays in op- 
position to them. Tom Avas a Whig, 
Avhile Esmond Avas a Tory. Tom 
neAxr missed a lecture, and capped the 
proctor Avith the profoundest of boAVS. 
No Avonder he sighed over Plarry’s in- 
subordinate courses, and Avas angry 
Avhen the others laughed at him. But 
that Harry Avas knoAvn to have my 
Lord Viscount’s protection, Tom no 
doubt Avould have broken Avith him 
altogether. But honest Tom neAxr 
gave up a comrade as long as he Avas 
the friend of a great man. This Avas 
not out of scheming on Tom’s part, 
but a natural inclination tOAvards the 
great. ’T Avas no hypocrisy in him 
to flatter, but the bent of his mind, 
which Avas ahvays perfectly good-hu- 
mored, obliging, and servile. 

Harry had very liberal alloAvances, 
for his dear mistress of CastleAvood 
not only regularly supplied him, but 
the Dowager of Chelsey made her do- 
nation annual, and received Esmond 
at her house near London every Christ- 
mas ; but, in spite of these benefac- 
tions, Esmond Avas constantly poor ; 
Avhilst ’t Avas a Avondcr Avith Iioav small 
a stipend from his father Tom Tusher 
contrived to make a good figure. ’T is 
true that Harry both spent, gave, and 
lent his money very freely, Avhich 
Thomas nev'er did. I think he Avas 
like the famous Duke of Marlborough 
in this instance, Avho, getting a pres- 
ent of fifty pieces, when a young man, 
from some foolish AvomanAvho fell in 
love Avith his good looks, shoAved the 
money to Cadogan in a draAver scores 
of years after, Avherc it had lain ever 
since he had sold his beardless honor 
to procure it. I do not mean to s<ay 
that Tom ever let out his good looks 
so profitably, for nature had not en- 
dowed him with any particular charms 


70 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


of person, and lie ever was a pattern 
of moral behavior, losing no oppor- 
tunity of giving the A^ery best advice 
to his younger comrade; Aviih Avliich 
article, to do liiin justice, he parted 
very freely. Not but that he was a 
merry fellow, too, in his way ; he 
loved a joke, if by good fortune he 
understood it, and took his share gen- 
erously of a bottle if anotlier paid for 
it, and especially if there Avas a young 
lord in company to drink it. In 
these cases there was not a harder 
drinker in the University than Mr. 
Tusher could be ; and it avms edifying 
to behold him, fresh shaA^ed and with 
smug face, singing out “ x\men ! ” at 
early chapel in the morning. In his 
reading, poor Harry permitted him- 
self to go a-gadding after all the Nine 
Muses, and so very likely had but lit- 
tle favor from any one of them ; Avhere- 
as Tom Tusher, Avho had no more 
turn for poetry than a ploughboy, nev- 
ertheless, by a dogged perseverance 
and obsequiousness in courting the 
divine Calliope, got himself a prize, 
and some credit in the University, 
and a felloAA^ship at his college, as a 
reward for his scholarship. In this 
time of Mr. Esmond’s life, he got the 
little reading Avhich he ever could 
boast of, and passed a good part of his 
days greedily devouring all the books 
on wliich he could laj’’ hand. In this 
desultory Avay the Avorks of most of 
the English, Erench, and Italian poets 
came under his eyes, and he had a 
smattering of the Spanish tongue 
likeAvise, besides the ancient lan- 
guages, of Avhich, at least of Latin, he 
Avas a tolerable master. 

Then, about midAvay in his Univer- 
sity career, he fell to reading for the 
profession to Avhich AA'orldly prudence 
rather than inclination called him, 
and Avas perfectly bcAvildercd in theo- 
logical controA^ersy. In the course of 
his reading (AA'hich Avas neither pur- 
sued Avith that seriousness or that de- 
vout mind Avhich such a study re- 
(|uircs) the youth found himself at 
the end of one month a Papist, and 
Avas about to proclaim his faith ; the 


next month a Protestant, Avith Chil- 
lingAvorth ; and the third a sceptic, 
Avith Hobbes and Baylc. Whereas 
honest Tom Tusher never permitted 
his mind to stray out of the prescribed 
UniA'crsity path, accepted the Thirty- 
nine Articles Avith all his heart, and 
Avould have signed and SAvorn to other 
nine-and-thirty Avith entire obedience. 
Harry’s Avilfulness in this matter, and 
disorderly thoughts and conA'ersation, 
so shocked and afflicted his senior, 
that there grcAv up a coldness and es- 
trangement betAveen them, so that 
they became scarce more than mere 
acquaintances, from having been inti- 
mate friends Avhen they came to col- 
lege first. Politics ran high, too, at 
the UniA’crsity; and here, also, the 
young men AA^ere at variance. Tom 
professed himself, albeit a high-church- 
man, a strong King William’s man; 
Avhereas Harry brought his family 
Tory politics to college Avith him, to 
Avhicb he must add a dangerous ad- 
miration for OliA'er CromAvell, Avbose 
side, orlving James’s by turns, he often 
chose to take in thedi.sputcs Avhich the 
young gentlemen used to hold in each 
other’s rooms, Avhere they debated on 
the state of the nation, croAvned and 
deposed kings, and toasted past and 
present heroes and beauties in flagons 
of college ale. 

Thus, either from the circumstan- 
ces of his birth, or the natural melan- 
choly of his disposition, Esmond 
came to live Axry much by himself 
during his stay at the University, 
having neither ambition enough to 
distinguish himself in the college 
career, nor caring to mingle Avith the 
mere pleasures and boyish frolics of 
the students, Avho Avere, for the most 
part, tAvo or three years younger than 
he. He fancied that the gentlemen 
of the common-room of his college 
slighted him on account of his birth, 
and hence kept aloof from their so- 
ciety. It may be that he made the ill- 
Avill, AAdiich he imagined came from 
them, by his OAvn behavior, Avhich, as 
he looks back on it in after life, he 
noAv sees Avas morose and haughty. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


71 


At any rate, he was as tenderly o^rate- 
ful for kindness as he was snscejnible 
ofsiigiitand wronc^ ; and, lonely as 
he was generally, yet had one or two 
very Avarm friendships for his com- 
panions of those days. 

One of these Avas a queer gentle- 
man that resided in the University, 
though he Avas no member of it, and 
Avas the professor of a science scarce 
recognized in the common course of 
college education. This Avas a French 
refugee-officer, Avho had been driven 
out of his native country at the time 
of the Protestant persecutions there, 
and Avho came to Cambridge, Avhere 
he taught the science of the small- 
SAVord, and set up a saloon-of-arms. 
Though he declared himself a Prot- 
estant, T Avas said Mr. Moreau Avas a 
Jesuit in disguise ; indeed, he brought 
A’^ery strong recommendations to the 
Tory party, Avhich Ayas pretty strong 
in that University, and very likely 
Avas one of the many agents Avhorn 
King James had in this country. 
Esmond found this gentleman’s con- 
versation very much more agreeable 
and to his taste than the talk of the 
college divines in the common-room ; 
he never Avearied of Moreau’s stories 
of the Avars of Turenne and Conde, 
in Avliich he had borne apart; and 
being familiar Avith the French tongue 
from his youtli, and in a place Avhere 
but few spoke it, his company be- 
came A'cry agreeable to the brave old 
professor of arms, Avhose favorite 
pupil he Avas, and Avho made Mr. 
Esmond a very tolerable proficient in 
the noble science of escrime. 

At the next term Esmond Avas to 
take his degree of Bachelor of Arts, 
and afterAvards, in proper season, to 
assume the cassock and bands which 
his fond mistress Avould liaA^e him 
AA'ear. Tom Tusher himself Avas a 
parson and a fellow of his college by 
this time ; and Harry felt that he 
Avould very gladly cede his right to 
the living of CastlcAvood to Tom, and 
that his OAvn calling Avas in no Avay 
the pulpit. But as he Avas bound, 
before all things in the Avorld, to his 


dear mistress at home, and kneAv that 
a refusal on his part Avould grieve 
her, he determined to give her no 
hint of his miAvillingness to the cler- 
ical office : and it aa'us in this unsatis- 
factory mood of mind that he Avent to 
spend the last vacation he should 
have at CastleAvood before he took 
orders. 


CHAPTER XI. 

I COME HOME FOR A HOLIDAY TO 

CASTLEWOOD, AND FIND A SKELE- 
TON IN THE HOUSE. 

At his third* long vacation, Es- 
mond came as usual to CastlcAvood, 
ahvays feeling an eager thrill of 
pleasure Avhen he found himself once 
more in the house Avhei*e he had 
passed so many years, and beheld 
the kind familiar eyes of his mistress 
looking upon him. She and her 
children (out of Avhose company she 
scarce CA’^cr saAv him) came to greet 
him. Miss Beatrix Avas grown so 
tall that Harry did not quite knoAV 
Avhether he might kiss licr or no ; and 
she blushed and held back Avhen he 
offered the salutation, thotigh she 
took it, and even courted it, Avhen 
the/ Avere alone. The young lord 
Avas shooting up to be like his gallant 
father in look, though Avith his moth- 
er’s kind eyes : the lady of Castle- 
Avood herself seemed grown, too, 
since Harry saAv her, — in her look 
more stately, in her person fuller, in 
her face still as ever most tender and 
friendly, a greater air of command 
and decision than had appeared in 
that guileless sweet countenance 
Avhich Harry remembered so grate- 
fully. The tone of her voice Avas so 
much deeper and sadder when she 
spoke ami AA'elcorned him, that it 
quite startled Esmond, AAdio looked up 
at her surprised as she spoke Avhen 
she withdrew her eyes from him ; nor 
did she ever look at him afterAvards 
Avhen his own eyes Avere gazing upon 
her. A something hinting at grief 
and secret, and filling his mind with 


72 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


alarm nndefinable, seemed to speak 
with that low thrilling voice of hers, 
and look out of those clear sad eyes. 
Her greeting to Esmond was so cold 
tliat it almost pained the lad (wlio 
would have liked to fall on his knees, 
and kiss the skirt of her robe, so fond 
and ardent was his respect and regard 
for her), and he faltered in answering 
the questions Avhich she, hesitating on 
her side, began to put to him. Was 
he happy at Cambridge'? Did he 
study too hard 'i She hoped not. He 
had grown very tall, and looked 
very well. 

‘‘ He has got a mustache ! ” cries 
out Master I^smond. 

“ Why does he not -wear a peruke 
like my Lord Mohun ? ” asked Miss 
Beatrix. “My Lord says that no- 
body wears their own hair.” 

“ I believe you will have to occupy 
your old chamber,” says my Lady. 
“ I hope the housekeeper has got it 
ready.” 

“Why, mamma, you have been 
there ten times these three days your- 
self ! ” exlaims Frank. 

“ And she cut some floAvcrs which 
you planted in my garden, — do you 
remember, ever so many years ago ? 
— when I was quite a little girl,” 
cries out Miss Beatrix, on tiptoe. 
“And mamma put them in your 
window.” 

“ I remember when you grew well 
after you were ill that you used to 
like roses,” said the lady, blushing 
like one of them. They all con- 
ducted Harry Esmond to his cham- 
her ; the children running before, 
Harry walking by his mistress hand- 
in-hand. 

The old room had been orna- 
mented and beautified not a little to 
receive him. The floAvers Avere in 
the AvindoAV in a china vase; and 
there Avas a fine ncAv counterpane on 
the bed, Avhich chatterbox Beatrix 
said mamma had made too. A fire 
was crackling on the hearth, although 
it Avas June. My Lady thought the 
room Avanted Avarming; eA^erything 
Avas done to make him happy and 


welcome : “ And you arc not to be a 
age any longer, but a gentleman and 
insman, and to Avalk Avith papa and 
mamma,” said the children. And as 
soon as liis dear mistress and children 
had left him to himself, it Avas with a 
heart OA^erfloAving Avith love and grate- 
fulness that he flung himself doAvn on 
his knees by the side of the little bed, 
and asked a blessing upon those Avho 
were so kind to him. 

The children, avIio are ahvays house 
telltales, soon made him acquainted 
Avith the little history of the house and 
family. Papa had been to London 
tAvice. Papa often Avent aAvay noAv. 
Papa had taken Beatrix to Westlands, 
Avhere she Avas taller than Sir George 
Harper’s second daughter, though she 
Avas tAvo years older. Papa had taken 
Beatrix and Frank both to Bellmin- 
ster, Avhere Frank had got the better 
of Lord Bellminster’s son in a boxing- 
match, — my Lord, laughing, told 
Harry afterAvards. Many gentlemen 
came to stop with papa, and papa had 
gotten a new game from London, a 
French game, called a billiard, — that 
the French king played it Aery aacII : 
and the DoAvager Lady Castlewood 
had sent Miss Beatrix a present ; and 
papa had gotten a nCAV chaise, with 
tAvo little horses, Avhich he drove him- 
self, beside the coach, which mamma 
AA'ent in ; and Dr. Tusher was a cross 
old plague, and they did not like to 
learn from him at all ; and papa did 
not care about them learning, and 
laughed when they Avere at their 
books, but mamma liked them to 
learn, and taught them ; and “ I don’t 
think papa is fond of mamma,” said 
Miss Beatrix, Avith her great eyes. 
She had come quite close up to Harry 
Esmond by the time this prattle took 
place, and was on his knee, and had 
examined all the points of his dress, 
and all the good or bad features of his 
homely face. 

“ You should n’t say that papa is 
not fond of mamma,” said the boy, at 
this confession. “ Mamma never said 
so ; and mamma forbade you to say 
it, Miss Beatrix.” 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


73 


’T was this, no doubt, that account- 
ed for the sadness in Lady Castle- 
wood’s eyes, and the plaintive vibra- 
tions of lier voice. Who docs not 
know of eyes, lighted by love once, 
where the flame shines no more — 
of lamps extinguished, once properly 
trimmed and tended? Every man 
has such in his house. Such memen- 
toes make our splendidest chambers 
look blank and sad ; such faces seen 
in a day cast a gloom upon our sun- 
shine. So oaths mutually sworn, and 
invocations of heaven, and priestly 
ceremonies, and fond belief, and love, 
so fond and faithful that it never 
doubted but that it should live forever, 
are all of no avail towards making 
love eternal : it dies, in spite of the 
banns and the priest; and I have 
often thought there should be a visita- 
tion of the sick for it, and a funeral 
service, and an extreme unction, and 
an old in pace. It has its course, like 
all mortal things, — its beginning, 
rogress, and decay. It buds and it 
looms out into sunshine, and it with- 
ers and ends Strephon and Chloe 
languish apart ; join in a rapture: 
and presently you hear that Chloe is 
crying, and Strephon has broken his 
crook across her back. Can you 
mend it so as to show no marks of 
rupture ? Not all the priests of Hy- 
men, not all the incantations to the 
gods, can make it whole ! 

Waking up from dreams, books, 
and visions of college honors, in which 
for two years Harry Esmond had been 
immersed, he found himself, instantly, 
on his return home, in the midst of 
this actual tragedy of life, which ab- 
sorbed and interested him more than 
all his tutor had taught him. The 
persons whom he loved best in the 
world, and to whom he owed most, 
were living unhappily together. The 
gentlest and kindest of women was 
suffering ill usage and shedding tears 
in secret : the man who made her 
wretched by neglect, if not by violence, 
was Harry’s benefactor and patron. 
In houses where, in place of that sa- 
cred, inmost flame of love, there is 
4 


discord at the centre, the whole house- 
hold becomes hypocritical, aud each 
lies to his neighbor. The husband 
(or it may be the wife) lies when the 
visitor comes in, and w'ears a grin of 
reconciliation or politeness before 
him. The wife lies (indeed, her busi- 
ness is to do that, and to smile, how- 
ever much she is beaten), swallows 
her tears, and lies to her lord and 
master ; lies in bidding little Jacky 
respect dear jiapa ; lies in assuring 
grandpapa that she is perfectly happy. 
The servants lie, wearing grave tacos 
behind their master’s chair, and pre- 
tending to be unconscious of the fight- 
ing; and so, from morning till bed- 
time, life is passed in falsehood. And 
wiseacres call this a proper regard of 
morals, and point out Baucis and 
Philemon as examples of a good life. 

If- my Lady did not speak of her 
griefs to Harry Esmond, my Lord was 
by no means reserved when in his 
cups, and spoke his mind very freely, 
bidding Harry in his coarse way, and 
with his blunt language, beware of all 
women as cheats, jades, jilts, and us- 
ing other unmistakable monosyllables 
in speaking of them. Indeed, ’t was 
the fashion of the day, as I must own ; 
and there ’s not a writer of my time 
of any note, with the exception of 
poor Dick Steele, that does not speak 
of a woman as of a slave, and scorn 
and use her as such. Mr. Pope, Mr. 
Congreve, Mr. Addison, Mr. Gay, 
every one of ’em, sing in this key, each 
according to his nature and politeness, 
and louder and fouler than all in 
abuse is Dr. Swift, who spoke of 
them, as he treated them, worst of 
all. 

Much of the quarrels and hatred 
which arise between married people 
come in my mind from the husband’s 
rage and revolt at discovering that 
his slave and bedfellow, who is to 
minister to all his wishes, and is 
church-sworn to honor and obey 
him, — is his superior ; and that /le, 
and not she, ought to be the subordi- 
nate of the twain ; and in these 
controversies, I think, lay the cause 


74 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


of my Lord’s anger against his lady. 
When he left her, she began to tliink 
for herself, and her thoughts were 
not in his favor. After the illumina- 
tion, when the love-lamp is put out 
that anon Ave spoke of, and by the 
common daylight we look at the 
picture, Avhat a daub it looks ! what 
a clumsy effigy ! How many men 
and wives come to this knowledge, 
think you 1 And if it he painful to 
a woman to find herself mated for 
life to a boor, and ordered to love and 
honor a dullard ; it is Avorse still for 
the man himself perhaps, AvheneA'er 
in his dim comprehension the idea 
daAvns that his slave and drudge 
yonder is, in truth, his superior; that 
the Avoman Avho does his bidding, and 
submits to his humor, should be his 
lord ; that she can think a thousand 
things bevond the power of his 
muddled brains ; and that in yonder 
head, on the pilloAv opposite to him, 
lie a thousand feelings, mysteries of 
thought, latent scorns and rebellions, 
Avhereof he only dimly perceives the 
existence as they look out furtively 
from her eyes : treasures of love 
doomed to perish Avithout a hand to 
gather them ; SAveet fancies and 
images of beauty that Avould groAV 
and unfold themseh-es into floAvers ; 
bright Avit that AA^ould shine like 
diamonds could it be brought into 
the sun : and the tyrant in possession 
crushes the outbreak of all these, 
drives them back like slaves into the 
dungeon and darkness, and chafes 
without that his prisoner is rebellious, 
and his SAvorn subject undutiful and 
refractory. So the lamp Avas out in 
CastlcAA^ood Hall, and the lord and 
lady there saAv each other as they 
were. With her illness and altered 
beauty my Lord’s fire for his Avife 
disappeared ; Avith his selfishness tyAcl 
faithlessness her foolish fiction of loA^e 
and reverence Avas rent aAvay. Love ! 
— Avho is to love Avhat is base and 
unlovely ? Respect ! — Avho is to 
respect Avhat is gross and sensual? 
Not all the marriage oaths SAA^orn 
before all the parsons, cardinals. 


ministers, muftis, and rabbins in the 
Avorld can bind to that monstrous 
allegiance. This couple Avas living 
a])art then ; the Avoman happy to be 
alloAved to Ioa'C and tend her cliildren 
(Avho Avere never of her OAvn good-AviU 
aAvay from her), and thankful to have 
saved such treasures as these out of 
the Avreck in Avhich the better j^art of 
her heart Avent doAvn. 

These young ones had had no 
instructors save their mother, and 
Doetor Tusher for their theology 
occasionally, and 'had made more 
progress than might have been ex- 
pected under a tutor so indulgent and 
fond as Lady CastleAvood. Beatrix 
could sing and dance like a nymph. 
Her A’oice AA'as her father’s delight 
after dinner. She ruled OA’er the 
house Avith little imperial Avays, Avhich 
her parents coaxed and laughed at. 
She had long learned the value of her 
bright eyes, and tried experiments in 
coquetry, in corpore till, upon rustics 
and country squires, until she should 
prepare to conquer the Avorld and the 
fashion. She put on a ncAv ribbon 
to Avalcome Harry Esmond, made 
eyes at him, and directed her young 
smiles at him, not a little to the 
amusement of the young man, and 
the joy of her father, Avho laughed 
his great laugh, and encouraged lier 
in her thousand antics. Lady Castle- 
AA’Ood Avatched the child gravely and 
sadly : the little one Avas pert in her 
replies to her mother, yet eager in her 
protestations of love and promises of 
amendment ; and as ready to cry 
(after a little quarrel brought on by 
her OAvn giddiness) until she had Avon 
hack her mamma’s fnor, as she Avas 
to risk the kind lady’s displeasure by 
fresh outbreaks of restless vanity. 
From her mother’s sad looks she fled 
to her father’s chair and boozy 
laughter. She already set the one 
against the other ; and the little 
rogue delighted in the mischief 
Avhich she kneAv hoAv to make so 
early. 

The young heir of CastleAvood Avas 
spoiled by father and mother both. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


He took their caresses as men do, and 
as if tlicy were his ri<;Iit. He had 
his hawks and his spaniel doff, his 
little horse and his beagles. He had 
learned to ride, and to drink, and to 
shoot flying : and he had as small 
court, the sons of the huntsman and 
woodman, as became the heir-appar- 
ent, taking after the example of my 
Lord his hither. If he had a 
headache, his mother was as much 
frightened as if the plague were in 
the hou.se : my Lord laughed and 
jeered in his abrupt ivay — (indeed, 
’t was on the day after New Y'ear’s 
Day, and an excess of mince-pie) — 
and said Avith some of his usual 

o.tths, — “ D n it, Harry Esmond, 

— you sec how my Lady takes on 
about Frank’s megrim. 8he used to 
be sorry about me, my boy (pass the 
tankard, Harry), and to be frightened 
if I liad a headache once. She don’t 
care about my head noAV. They ’re 
like that, — Avomen are, — all the 
same, Harry, all jilts in their hearts. 
Stick to college, — stick to punch and 
buttery ale : and never see a Avoman 
that ’s handsomer than an old ^ 
cinder-fiiced bed-maker. That ’s my 
counsel.” 

It Avas my Lord’s custom to fling 
out many jokes of this nature, in 
presence of his Avife and children, at 
meals, — clumsy sarcasms which my 
Lady turned many a time, or Avhich, 
sometimes, she affected not to hear, 
or which now and again Avmuld hit 
their mark and make tlie poor victim 
Avince (as you could see by flushing 
flice and eyes filling Avith tears), or 
Avhich again Avorked her up to anger 
and retort, Avhen, in answer to one of 
these heaA^y bolts, she would flash 
back Avith a quivering reply. The 
pair Avere not happy ; nor indeed Avas 
it happy to be Avith them. Alas that 
youthffil love and truth should end in 
bitterness and bankruptcy! To see 
a young couple loving each other is 
no Avonder ; but to see an old couple 
loving each other is the best sight of 
all. Harry Esmond became the con- 
fidant of one and the other, — that is, 


75 

my Lord told the lad all his griefs and 
Avrongs (avIucIi Avere indeed of Lord 
CastleAAmod’sOAvn making), and Harry 
divined my Lady’s ; Ids affection lead- 
ing him easily to penetrate the hypoc- 
risy under Avhich Lady Castlewood 
generally chose to go disguised, and 
see her heart aching Avhilst her face 
Avore a smile. ’T is a hard task for 
AA'omcn in life, that mask Avhich the 
Avorld bids them Avear. But there is 
no greater crime than for a Avom.an 
Avho is ill used and unhappy to sIioav 
that she is so. The world is quite 
relentless about bidding her to keep a 
cheerful face ; and our Avomcn, like 
the Malabar avIa'cs, ai'c forced to go 
smiling and painted to sacrifice them- 
selves Avith their husbands; their 
relations being the most eager to push 
them on to their duty, and, under 
theirshouts and applauses, to smother 
and hush their cries of pain. 

So, into the sad secret of his 
patron’s household, Harry Esmond 
became initiated, he scarce kneiv how. 
It has passed under his eyes tAV'o 
years before, Avhen he could not un- 
^ derstand it ; but reading, and thought, 
and experience of men, had oldened 
him ; and one of the deepest sorroAvs 
of a life Avhich had never, in truth, 
been A^ery happy, came upon him 
noAv, AA'hen he was compelled to under- 
stand and pity a grief Avhich he stood 
quite poAA'erless to relieve. 

It hath been said my Tx)rd Avould 
neA^er take thq oath of allegiance, nor 
his scat as a peer of the kingdom of 
Ireland, where, indeed, he had but a 
nominal estate ; and refused an Eng- 
lish peerage Avhich King William’s 
government offered him as a bidbe to 
secure his loyalty. 

He might have accepted this, and 
Avould doubtless, but for the earnest 
remonstrances of his Avife, Avho ruled 
her husband’s o])inions better than 
she could govern his conduct, and who 
being a simple-hearted Avoman, Avith 
but one rule of faith and right, never 
thought of SAverving from her fidelity 
to the exiled family, or of recognizing 


76 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


any other sovereign but King James ; 
and though she acquiesced in the 
doctrine of obedience to the reigning 
power, no temptation, slie thought, 
could induce her to acknowledge the 
Prince of Orange as rightful monarch, 
nor to let her lord so acknowledge 
liim. So my* Lord Castlewood re- 
mained a nonjuror all his life nearly, 
though his self-denial caused him 
many a pang, and left him sulky and 
out of humor. 

The year after the Kevolution, and 
all through King William’s life, ’t is 
known there were constant intrigues 
for the restoration of the exiled fami- 
ly ; but if my Lord Castlewood took 
any share of tliese, as is probable, 
it was only for a short time, and when 
Harry Esmond was too young to be 
introduced into such important secrets. 

Hut in the year 1695, when that 
conspiracy of Sir John Fenwick, 
Colonel Lowick, and others, was set 
on foot, for waylaying King William 
as he came from Plampton Court to 
London, and a secret |)lot was formed, 
in which a vast number of the nobility 
and people of honor were engaged, 
Father Ilolt appeared at Castlewood, 
and brought a young friend with him, 
a gentleman whom ’t was easy to see 
that both my Lord and the Father 
treated with uncommon deference. 
Harry P^smond -saw this gentleman, 
and knew and recognized him in after 
life, as shall be shown in its place; 
and he has little doubt now that my 
Lord Viscount was implicated some- 
what in the transactions Avhich always 
kept P'ather Holt employed and travel- 
ling hither and thither under a dozen 
of different names and disguises. The 
Father’s companion went by the name 
of Captain James ; and it was under 
a very different name and appearance 
that Harry Esmond afterwards saw 
him. 

1 1 was the next year that the Fen- 
wick conspiracy blew up, which is a 
matter of public history now, and 
which ended in the execution of Sir 
John and many more, who suffered 
manfully for their treason, and who 


were attended to Tyburn by my 
I.ady’s father Dean Armstrong, Mr. 
Collier, and other stout nonjuring 
clergymen, Avho absolved them at the 
galloAvs-foot. 

’T is known that Avhen Sir John 
Avas apprehended, discovery Avas made 
of a great number of names of gentle- 
men engaged in the consjjiracy ; 
Avhen, with a noble Avisdom and clem- 
ency, the Prince burned the list of 
conspirators furnished to him, and 
said he Avould knoAV no more. Noav 
it Avas after this that Lord CastleAA ood 
SAA'ore his great oath, that he Avould 
never, so help him Heaven, be engaged 
in any transaction against that braA-c 
and merciful man ; and so he told 
Holt Avhen the indefatigable priest 
visited him, and AA^ould have had him 
engage in a further conspiracy. After 
this my Lord ever spoke of King 
William as he Avas, — as one of the 
Avisest, the braA^est, and the greatest 
of men. My Lady Esmond (for her 
part) said she could never pardon the 
King, first, for ousting his father-in- 
hnv from his throne, and secondly, 
for not being constant to his Avife, the 
Princess Mary. Indeed, I think if 
Nero were to rise again, and be king 
of England, and a good family man, 
the ladies Avould pardon him. My 
Lord laughed at his AAife’s objections, 
— the standard of virtue did not fit 
him much. 

The last conference Avhich Mr. 
Holt had Avith his Lordship took 
place Avhen Harry Avas come home 
for his first v'acation from college 
(Harry saAV his old tutor but for a 
half-hour, and exchanged no private 
Avords Avith him), and their talk, 
whatever it might be, left my Lord 
Viscount very much disturbed in 
mind, — so much so, that his Avife, and 
his young kinsman, Henry Esmond, 
could not but obseiwe his disquiet. 
After Holt Avas gone, my Lord rebuff- 
ed Esmond, and again treated him 
Avith the greatest deierence ; he shun- 
ned his Avife’s questions and company, 
and looked at his children Avith such 
a face of gloom and anxiety, mutter- 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


77 


ing, “Poor children — poor chil- 
dren ! ” in a way that could not but 
fill those whose life it Avas to Avatch 
him and obey him Avith great alarm. 
For Avhich gloom, each person inter- 
ested in the Lord Castlewood, framed 
in his or her own mind an interpre- 
tation. 

My Lady, Avith a laugh of cruel 
bitterness, said, “ I suppose the person 
at Hexton has been ill, or has scolded 
him” (for my Lord’s infatuation 
about Mrs. Mai'Avood Avas known only 
too AA^ell). Young Esmond feared for 
liis money affairs, into the condition 
of which he had been initiated ; and 
that the expenses, alAA^ays greater 
than his revenue, had caused Lord 
Castlewood disquiet. 

One of the causes Avhy my Lord 
Viscount had taken young Esmond 
into his special favor Avas a trivial 
one, that hath not before been men- 
tioned, though it was a very lucky 
accident in Henry Esmond’s life. A 
very few months after my Lord’s 
coming to Castlewood, in the Avinter 
time, — the little boy, being a child 
in a petticoat, trotting about, — it 
happened that little Frank Avas Avith 
his father after dinner, who fell asleep 
over his Avine, heedless of the child, 
who crawled to the fire ; and, as 
good fortune Avould haAX it, Esmond 
Avas sent by his mistress for the boy 
just as the poor little screaming 
urchin’s coat Avas set on fire by a log ; 
when Esmond, rushing forward, tore 
the dress off the infant, so that his 
OAvn hands Avere burned more than 
the cliild’s, Avho Avas frightened rather 
than hurt by this accident. But cer- 
tainly ’t was providential that a reso- 
lute person should have come in at 
that instant, or the child had been 
burned to death probably, my Lord 
sleeping A'cry heavily after drinking, 
and not Avaking so cool as a man 
should Avho had a danger to face. 

Ever after this the father, loud in 
his expressions of remorse and hmnil- 
ity for being a tipsy good-for-nothing, 
and of admiration for Harry Esmond, 
Avhom his Lordship Avould style a 


hero for doing a A-ery trifling sendee, 
had the tenderest regard for his son’s 
preserver, and Harry became quite 
as one of the family. His burns were 
tended Avith the greatest care l>y his 
kind mistress, Avho said that Heaven 
had sent him to be the guardian of 
her children, and that she Avould love 
him all her life. 

And it Avas after this, and from the 
very great love and tenderness Avhich 
had groAvn up in this little household, 
rather than from the exhortations of . 
Dean Armstrong (though these had 
no small Aveight A\dth him), that 
Harry came to be quite of the religion 
of his house and his dear mistress, of 
Avhich he has ever since been a pro- 
fessing member. As for Dr. Tusher’s 
boasts that he Ava.s the cause of this 
conversion, — eA'en in these young 
days Mr. Esmond had such a con- 
tempt for the Doctor, that had Tnslier 
bade him believe anything (which he 
did not — never meddling at all), 
Harry Avould that instant have ques- 
tioned the truth on ’t. 

My Lady seldom drank Avine ; but 
on certain days of the year, such as 
birthdays (poor Harry had ncA'cr a 
one) and anniv'crsaries, she took a 
little ; and this day, the 29th Decem- 
ber, Avas one. At the end, then, of 
this year, ’96, it might have been a 
fortnight after Mr. Holt’s last visit. 
Lord Castlewoorl being still very 
gloomy in mind, and sitting at table, 
— my Lady bidding a servant bring 
her a glass of Avine, and looking at 
her husband Aviih one of her sweet 
smiles, said, — 

“ My Lord, Avill you not fill a 
bumper too, and let me call a toast ? ” 

“ What is it, Kachel ? ” says he, 
holding out his empty glass to be 
filled. 

“ ’T is the 29th of December,” says 
my Lady, Avith her fond look of grati- 
tude : ” and my toast is, ‘ Harry — 
and God bless him, Avho saved my 
boy’s life ! ’ ” 

My Lord looked at Harry hard, 
and drank the glass, but clapped it 
dOAvn on the table in a moment, and, 


78 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


with a sort of groan, rose up, and 
went out of tlie room. Wluit was 
the matter? AVe all knew that some 
gi’cat grief was over him. 

AVhetlicr my Lord’s prudence had 
made him richer, or legacies had 
fallen to him, wliich enabled him to 
support a greater establishment than 
that frugal one which had been too 
much for his small means, Harry Es- 
mond knew not; but the house of 
Castlewood was now on a scale much 
more costly than it had been during 
the first years of his Lordship’s com- 
ing to the title. There were more 
horses in the stable and more servants 
in the hall, and many more guests 
coming and going now than formerly, 
when it Avas found difficult enough 
by the strictest economy to keep the 
house as befitted one of his Lord- 
ship’s rank, and the estate out of 
debt. And it did not require A’ery 
much penetration to find that many 
of the ncAV, acquaintances at Castlc- 
Avood Avere not agreeable to the lady 
there : not that she ever treated them 
or any mortal Avith anything but 
courtesy ; but they Avere persons Avho 
could not be AA'elcome to her; and 
whose society a lady so refined and 
reserved could scarce desire for her 
children. There came fuddling 
squires from the country round, Avho 
baAvled their songs under her Avin- 
doAvs and drank themseL'cs tipsy 
Avith my Lord’s punch and ale : there 
came officers from Ilexton, in Avhose 
company our little lord Avas made to 
hear talk and to drink, and SAvear too, 
in a Avay that made the delicate lady 
tremble for her son. Esmond tried 
to console her by saying Avhat he 
kncAv of his College experience ; that 
Avith this sort of company and con- 
A'crsation a man must fall in sooner 
or later in his course through the 
Avorld: and it mattered very little 
Avhether he heard it at tAvelve years 
old or tAA^cnty, — the youths who quit- 
ted mother’s apron-strings the latest 
being not uncommonly the Avildest 
rakes. But it Avas about her daugh- 
ter that Lady CastlcAvood Avas the 


most anxious, and the danger AA’hich 
she thought menaced the little Bea- 
trix from the indulgences Avhich her 
father gaA^e her* (it must be OAvned 
that my Lord, since these unhappy 
domestic differences especially, Avas at 
once violent in bis language to the 
children Avhen angry, as he Avas loo 
familiar, not to say coarse, Avhen he 
AA'as in a good-humor), and from the 
company into Avhich the careless Lord 
brought the child. 

Not A'cry far off from CastlcAvood 
is Sark Castle, Avhere the IMarchion- 
ess of Sark lived, Avho Avas knoAvn to 
have been a mistress of the late King 
Charles, — and to this house, Avbither 
indeed a great part of the country 
gentry Avent, my Lord insisted upon 
going, not only himself, but on taking 
his little daughter and son, to play 
Avith the children there. The chil- 
dren Avere nothing loath, for the house 
Avas splendid, and the Avelcorne kind 
enough. But my Lady, justly no 
doubt, thought that the children of 
such a mother as that noted Lady 
Sark had been, could be no good com- 
pany for her tAvo ; and spoke her 
mind to her lord. His OAvn language 
Avhen he Avas tliAvarted Avas not indeed 
of the gentlest : to be brief, there Avas 
a family dispute on this, as there had 
been on many other points, — and the 
lady Avas not only forced to give in, 
for the other’s Avill Avas hnv, — nor 
could she, on account of their tender 
age, tell her children Avhat Avas the 
nature of her objection to their visit 
of pleasure, or indeed mention to 
them any objection at all, — but she 
had the additional secret mortifica- 
tion to find them returning delighted 
Avith their ncAV friends, loaded Avith 
presents from them, and eager to be 
alloAved to go back to a place of such 
delights as Sark Castle. Every year 
she thought the company there Avould 
be more dangerous to her daughter, 
as from a cliild Beatrix greAv to a 
Avoman, and her daily increasing 
beauty, and many faults of character 
too, expanded. 

It Avas Harry Esmond’s lot to seo 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


79 


one of the visits which the old Lady 
of Sark paid to the Lady of Castle- 
Avood Hall ; whither she came in state 
with six cliestnut horses and blue rib- 
bons, a page on each carriage-step, a 
gentleman of the horse, and armed 
servants riding before and behind 
her. And, but that it Avas unpleas- 
ant to see Lady CastleAvood’s face, it 
Avas amusing to Avatch the behavior 
of the two enemies : the frigid pa- 
tience of the younger lady, and the 
unconquerable good -humor of the 
elder, — avIio Avould see no offence 
AvhateA'er her rival intended, and Avho 
never ceased to smile and to laugh, 
and to coax the children, and to pay 
compliments to every man, Avoman, 
child, nay, dog, or chair and table, in 
CastleAvood, so bent Avas she upon ad- 
miring OA'erything there. She lauded 
the children, and wished — as indeed 
she AA'ell might — that her oavu family 
had been brought up as Avell as those 
cherubs. She had never seen such 
a complexion as dear Beatrix’s, — 
though to be sure she had a idght to 
it from father and mother, — Lady 
CastleAvood’s Avas indeed a Avonder of 
freshness, and Lady Sark sighed to 
think she had not been born a fiir 
Avoman ; and remarking Harry Es- 
mond, Avith a fascinating superannu- 
ated smile, she complimented him on 
his Avit, Avhich she said she could see 
from his eyes and forehead ; and 
voAved that she Avould never have him 
at Sark until her daughter Avere out 
of the Avay. 

— ♦ 

CHAPTER XIL 

3UY LORD MOIIUN COMES AMONG US 
FOR NO GOOD. 

There had ridden along Avith this 
old Princess’s cavalcade, tAvo gentle- 
men : her son, my Lord Firebrace, 
and his friend, my Lord Mohun, aa'Iio 
both AA'ere greeted Avith a great deal 
of cordiality by the hospitable Lord 
of CastleAvood. My Lord Firebrace 
was but a feeble-minded and Aveak- 
limbcd young nobleman, small in 


stature and limited in understanding, 
— to judge from the talk young Es- 
mond had Avith him ; but the other 
Avas a person of a handsome presence, 
Avith the bt-l air, and a bright daring 
Avarlike aspect, Avhich, according to 
the chronicle of those days, had al- 
ready achieved for him the conquest 
of several beauties and toasts. He 
had fought and conrjuered in France, 
as Avell as in Flanders ; he had serA'cd 
a couple of campaigns Avith the 
Prince of Baden on the Danube, and 
Avitnessed the rescue of Vienna from 
the Turk. And he spoke of his 
military exploits pleasantly, and Avith 
the manly freedom of a soldier, so as 
to delight all his hearers at Castle- 
Avood Avho Avere little accustomed to 
meet a companion so agreeable. 

On the hrst day this noble com- 
pany came, my Lord Avould not hear 
of their departure before dinner, and 
carried aAvay the gentlemen to amuse 
them, Avhilst his Avife Avas left to do 
the honors of her house to the old 
Marchioness and her daughter Avithin. 
They looked at the stables, AA'here 
my Lord Mohun praised the horses, 
though there Avas but a poor shoAV 
there : they Avalked over the old house 
and gardens, and fought the siege of 
Oliver’s time OA'er again : they played 
a game of rackets in the old court, 
Avhere my Lord CastleAvood beat my 
Lord Mohun, Avho said he loved ball 
of all things, and Avould quickly 
come back to CastleAvood for his re- 
venge. After dinner they played 
boAvls, and drank punch in the green 
alley ; and Avhen they parted they were 
SAvorn friends, my Lord CastleAvood 
kissing the other lord before he 
mounted on horseback, and pronoun- 
cing him the best conq)anion he had 
met for many a long day. All night 
long, over his tobacco-])i])e, Castle- 
AAOod did not cease to talk of Hiirry 
Esmond in praise of his neAv friend, 
and in fact did not leave off speaking 
of him until his Lordship Avas so 
tipsy that he could not speak plainly 
any more. 

At breakfast next day it Avas the 


80 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESJIOND. 


same talk renewed ; and when my 
Lady said there was something free 
in the Lord Mohun’s looks and man- 
ner of speeeh whieh caused her to 
mistrust him, her lord hurst out with 
one of his laughs and oatlis ; said that 
he never liked man, woman, or beast, 
hut what she was sure to be jealous of 
it ; that Mohun was the prettiest fel- 
low in England ; that he hoped to see 
more of him whilst in the country ; 
and that he would let Mohun know 
what my Lady Prude said of him. 

“ Indeed,” Lady Castlewood said, 
“ I liked his conversation well enough, 
”r is more amusing than that of most 
people I know. I thought it, I own, 
too free, not from what he said, as 
rather from what he implied.” 

“ Psha ! your Ladyship does not 
know the world,” said her husband ; 
“ and you have always been as squeam- 
ish as when you were a miss of fif- 
teen.” 

“ You found no fault when I was a 
miss at fifteen.” 

“ Begad, madam, you are grown too 
old for a pinafore now ; and I hold 
that ’t is for me to judge what com- 
pany my wife shall see,” said my Lord, 
slapping the table. 

“ Indeed, Francis, I never thought 
otherwise,” answered my Lady, rising 
and dropping him a courtesy, in which 
stately action, if there was obedience, 
there Avas defiance too ; and in Avhich 
a bystander, deeply interested in the 
happiness of that pair as Han*y Es- 
mond Avas, might see Iioav hopeless- 
ly separated they Avere ; Avhat a great 
gulf of difference and discord had run 
between them. 

“ By G — d ! Mohun is the best fel- 
loAv in England ; and I '11 invite him 
here, just to plague that Avoman. Did 
you ever see such a frigid insolence as 
it is, Han'y ? That 's the Avay she 
treats me,” he broke out, storming, 
and his faee growing red as he 
clenched his fists and Avent on. “I 
'm nobody in my OAvn house. I 'm to 
be the humble servant of that parson’s 
daughter. By Jove ! I ’d rather she 
should fling the dish at my head than 


sneer at me as she does. She puts 
me to shame before the children 

Avith her d d airs ; and, I ’ll swear, 

tells Frank and B^aty that papa ’s a 
reprobate, and that they ought to de- 
spise me.” 

“Indeed and indeed,' sir, I never 
heard her say a Avord but of respect 
regarding you,” Harry Esmond in- 
terposed. 

“No, curse it! I Avish she AA'ould 
speak. But she ncA’er does. She 
scorns me, and holds her tongue. 
She keeps off from me, as if I Avas a 
pestilence. By George ! she was fond 
enough of her pestilence once. And 
when I came a-courting, you Avould 
see miss blush — blush red, by George! 
for joy. Why, Avhat do you think 
she said to me, Harry ? She said her- 
self, Avhen I joked Avith her about her 

d d smiling red cheeks : ‘ ’T is as 

they do at St. James’s ; I put up my 
red flag Avhen my king comes.’ 1 was 
the king, you see, she meant. But 
noAv, sir, look at her ! I believe she 
would be glad if I Avas dead ; and dead 
I ’ve been to her these five years, — 
ever since you all of you had the small- 
pox : and she never forgave me for 
going aAvay.” 

“ Indeetl, my Lord, though ’t Avas 
hard to forgive, I think my mistress 
forgave it,” Harry Esmond said ; 
“ and remember Iioav eagerly she 
Avatched your Lordship’s return, and 
hoAv sadly she turned aAvay when she 
saAV your cold looks.” 

“ Damme ! ” erics out my Lord ; 
“Avould you have had me Avait and 
catch the small - pox 1 Where the 
deuce had been the good of that ? I ’ll 
bear danger Avith any man, — but not 
useless danger — no, no. Thank 
you for nothing. And — you nod 
your head, and I knoAV very Avell, Par- 
son Harry, Avhat you mean. There 
Avas the — the other affair to make 
her angry. But is a Avoman ncA'cr to 
forgive a husband Avho goes a-tri]> 
ping ? Do A'ou take me for a saint ? ” 

“ Indeed, sir, I do not,” says Har- 
ry, Avith a smile. 

“ Since that time my Avife ’s as colt] 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


81 


as the statue at Charing Cross. Ii 
tell thee she has no forgiveness in her, j 
Henry. Her coldness blights niy; 
Avliole life, and sends me to the punch- j 
howl, or driving about the country.} 
;My children are not mine, but hers, 
when Ave are together. ’T is onlyj 
when she is out of sight Avith lierj 
abominable cold glances, that run; 
through me, that they ’ll come to me, 
and that I dare to giA'e them so much 
as a kiss ; and that ’s Avhy I take ’em 
and love ’em in other people’s houses, 
Harry. I am killed by the very vir-i 
tue of that proud Avoman. Yirtue! 
give me the virtue that can forgive ; 
give me the virtue that tliinks not of 
preserving itself, but of making other 
folks happy. Damme, Avhat matters 
a scar or two if ’t is got in helping a' 
friend in ill fortune ? ” 

And my Lord again slapped the 
table, and took a great draught from 
the tankard. Harry Esmond admired 
as he listened to him, and thought 
how the poor preacher of this self- 
sacrifice had fled from the small-pox, 
Avhich the lady had borne so cheerful- 
ly, and Avhich had been the cause of 
so much disunion in the lives of all in 
this house. “ How Avell men preach,” 
thought the young man, “ and each is 
the example in his own sermon. How 
each has a story in a dispute, and a 
true one, too, and both are right or 
Avrong as you Avill ! ” Han*y’s heart- 
Avas pained Avithin him, to AA'atch the 
struggles and pangs that tore the 
breast of tliis kind, manly friend and 
protector. 

“ Indeed, sir,” said he, “ I Avish to 
God that my mistress could hear you 
speak as I have heard you ; she Avould 
know much that AVOuld make her life 
the happier, could, she hear it.” But 
my Lord flung aAvay with one of his 
oaths, and a jeer ; he said that Parson 
Harry Avas a good fellow ; but that as 
for Avomen, all Avomen Avere alike, — 
all jades and heartless. So a man 
dashes a fine vase doAvn, and despises 
it for being broken. It may be Avorth- 
less — true : but Avho had the keeping 
of it, and Avho shattered it 1 


Harry, who AAmuld have giA^en his 
life to make hie benefactress and her 
husband happy, bethought him, now 
that he saw Avhat my Lord’s state of 
mind Avas, and that he really had a 
great deal of that loA-e left in his heart, 
and ready for his Avife’s acceptance if 
she Avould take it, Avhether he could 
not be a means of reconciliation be- 
tween these tAvo persons, Avhom he re- 
vered the most in the Avorld. And he 
cast about hoAV he should break a part 
of his mind to his mistress, and Avarn 
her that in his, Harry’s opinion, at 
least, her husband Avas still her ad- 
mirer, and even her lover. 

But he found the subject a very 
difficult one to handle, Avhen he ven- 
tured to remonstrate, Avhich he did in 
the very gravest, tone (for long confi- 
dence aud reiterated proofs of devo- 
tion and loyalty had given him a sort 
of authority in the house, Avhich ho 
resumed as soon as cA'cr he returned 
to it), and Avith a speech that should 
have some effect, as, indeed, it w'as ut- 
tered Avith the speaker’s OAvn heart, 
he ventured most gently to hint to his 
adored mistress that she Avas doing 
her husband harm by her ill opinion 
of him, and that the happiness of all 
the' family depended upon setting her 
right 

She, Avho Avas ordinarily calm and 
most gentle, and full of smiles and 
soft attentions, flushed up Avhen young 
Esmond so spoke to her, and rose 
from her chair, looking at him Avith a 
haughtiness and indignation that he 
had never before knoAvn her to dis- 
play. She was quite an altered be- 
ing for that moment ; and looked an 
angry princess insulted by a vas- 
sal, 

“ Have you CAmr heard me utter a 
Avord in my Lord’s disparagement ? ” 
she asked hastily, hissing out her 
Avords, and stamping her foot. 

“ Indeed, no,” Esmond said, look- 
ing doAvn. 

“ Arc you come to me as his am- 
bassador — i/OH'/ ” she continued. 

“ I Avould sooner sec ])eace betAveeu 
you than anything else in the Avorld,” 
F 


82 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


Harry . answered, “ and would go of 
any embassy that had that end.” 

“ So you are my Lord’s go-be- 
tween ■? she went on, not regarding 
this speeeh. “ You are sent to hid 
me back into slavery again, and in- 
form me that my Lord’s fiivor is gra- 
ciously restored to his handmaid ? 
He is weary of Covent Garden, is he, 
that he comes home and would have 
the fatted calf killed 1 ” 

“ There ’s good authority for it, 
surely,” said Esmond. 

“ For a son, yes ; but my Lord is 
not my son. It was he who cast me 
away from him. It was he who broke 
our happiness down, and he bids me 
to repair it. It was he who showed 
himself to me at last, as he Avas, not 
as I had thought him. It is he who 
comes before my children stupid and 
senseless with wine, — who leaves our 
company for that of frequenters of 
taverns and bagnios, — w ho goes from 
his home to tlie City yonder and his 
friends there, and when he is tired of 
them returns hither, and expects that 
I shall kneel and w'elcome him. And 
lie sends you as his chamberlain ! 
What a proud embassy ! Monsieur, 
I make you my compliment of the 
new place,” 

“ It would be a proud embassy, and 
a happy embassy too, could I bring 
you and my Lord together,” Esmond 
replied. 

“ I presume you have fulfilled your 
mission noAV, sir, ’T was a pretty one 
for you to undertake. I don’t know 
Avhether ’tis your Cambridge philoso- 
phy, or time, that has altered your 
ways of thinking,” Lady CastlcAvood 
continued, still in a sarcastic tone. 
“ Perhaps you too have learned to 
love drink, and to hiccup over your 
wine or punch ; — which is your Wor- 
ship’s fiivorite liquor'? Perhaps you 
too put up at the ‘ Rose ’ on your wny 
to London, and have your acquaint- 
ances in Covent Garden. My ser- 
vices to you, sir, to principal and am- 
bassador, to master and — and lack- 
ey.” 

“ Great Heavens ! madam,” cried 


Harry. What have I done that 
thus, for a second time, you insult 
me ■? Ho you wish me to blush lor 
Avhat I used to be proud of, that I 
lived on your bo'unty "? Next to do- 
ing you a service (which my life 
would pay for), you know that to re- 
ceive one from you is my highest 
pleasure. What Avrong have I done 
you that you should Avound me so, 
cruel Avoman '? ” 

“What Avrong'?” she said, look- 
ing at Esmond Avith Avild eyes. 
“ Well, none — none that you knoAv 
of, Harry, or could help. Why did you 
bring back the small-pox,” she added, 
after a pause, “ from CastlcAvood vil- 
lage ? You could not help it, could 
3^ou ■? Which of us knoAvs Avhilher 
fate leads us '? But Ave Avere all hap- 
py, Henry, till then.” And Harry 
Avent aAvay from this colloquyq think- 
ing still that the estrangement be- 
tAvecn his patron and his beloved mis- 
tress Avas remediable, and tliat each 
had at heart a strong attachment to 
the other. 

The ^ intimacy' hctAAcen the Lords 
Mohun and Castlewood apjjcarcd to 
increase as long as the former re- 
mained in the country ; and my Lord 
of Castlewood especially seemed 
never to be happy out of his ncAv com- 
rade’s sight. They sported together, 
they drank, they played IoavIs and 
tennis : my Lord CastlcAvood Avould 
go for three days to Sark, and bring 
back my Lord Mohun to CastlcAvcod, 
— Avhere indeed his Lordship made 
himself very Avelcome to all ]Krsons, 
having a joke or a ncAv game at romps 
for the children, all the talk of the 
tOAvn for my' Lord, and music and gal- 
lantry' and plenty of thc/)fau lancjacje for 
my Lady, and for Harry Esmond, Avho 
was ncA'er tired of hearing his stories 
of his campaigns and his life at Yirn- 
na, Venice, Paris, and the famous 
cities of Europe Avhich he had visited 
both in peace and Avar. And I c sang 
at my Lady’s har})sichord, and played 
cards or backgammon, or his ncAv 
game of billiards Avith my Lord (of 
whom he invariably got the belter) ; 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


83 


always havinp^ a consummate fjood- 
hiimor, and bearing himself with a 
certain manly grace, that might cx- 
liibit somewhat of the camp and Al- 
satia perha])S, but that had its charm, 
and stamped him a gentleman : and 
his manner to Lady Castlewood was 
so devoted and respectful, that she 
soon recovered from the first feelings 
of dislike which she had conceived 
against him, — nay, before long, be- 
gan to be interested in his spiritual 
welfare, and hopeful of his conver- 
sion, lending him books of piety, 
which he promised dutifully to study. 
Witli her my Lord talked of reform, 
of settling into quiet life, quitting the 
court and town, and buying some 
land in the neighborhood, — thougli 
it must be owned that, when the two 
lords were together over their Bur- 
gundy after dinner, their talk was 
very different, and there was very lit- 
tle question of conversion on my Lord 
Mohun’s part. AYhen they got to their 
second bottle, Harry Esmond used 
commonly to leave these two noble 
topers, who, though they talked freely 
enough. Heaven knows, in his pres- 
ence (Good Lord, what a set of stories, 
of Alsatia and Spring Garden, of 
the taverns and gaming-houses, of 
the ladies of the court, and mes- 
dames of the theatres, lie can recall 
out of their godly conversation ! ) — 
although, I say, they talked before 
Esmond freely, yet they seemed 
pleased when he went away, and 
then they had another bottle, and 
then they fell to cards, and then my 
Lord Mohun came to her Ladyship’s 
drawing-room ; leaving his boon com- 
panion to sleep off his wine. 

’T was a poinf of honor with the 
fine gentlemen of those days to lose 
or win magnificently at their horse- 
matches, or games of cards and dice, 
— and you could never tell, from the 
demeanor of these two lords after- 
wards, Avhich had been successful and 
Avhich the loser at their games. And 
when my Lady hinted to my Lord 
that he played more than she liked, 
he dismissed her with a “ pish,” and ' 


swore that nothing was more equal 
tliau play betwixt gentlemen, if they 
did but keep it up long enough. And 
these kept it up long enough, yon 
may be sure. A man of fashion of 
that time often passed a quarter of 
his day at cards, and another quaiher 
at drink : I have known many a ])ret- 
ty fellow, Avho was a wit too, ready 
of repartee, and possessed of a thou- 
sand graces, who Avould be puzzled 
if he had to Avrite more than his 
name. 

There is scarce any thoughtful man 
or Avoman, I suppose, but can look 
back upon his course of past life, and 
remember some point, trifling as it 
may have seemed at the time of occur- 
rence, Avhich has nevertheless turned 
and altered his Avhole career. ’T is 
Avith almost all of us, as in M. Mas- 
sillon’s maijnificent image regarding 
King William, a grain de sable that 
perverts or perhaps overthrows us ; 
and so it Avas but a light avoiR flung 
in the air, a mere freak of perA^erse 
child’s temper, that brought doAvu a 
Avhole heap of erushing avocs upon 
that family Avhereof Harry Esmond 
formed a part. 

Coming home to his dear Castle- 
wood in the third year of his aca- 
demical course (Avherein he had noAv 
obtained some distinction, his Latin 
Poem on the death of the Duke of 
Gloucester, Princess Anne of Den- 
mark’s son, having gained him a 
medal, and introduced him to the so- 
ciety of the Univ^ersity Avits), Esmond 
found his little friend and jnipil Bea- 
trix groAvn to be taller than her 
mother, a slim and loAnly young girl, 
with cheeks matitling Avith health and 
roses : Avith eyes like stars shining 
out of azure, Avith Avaving bronze hair 
clustered about the fairest young fore, 
head ever seen : and a mien and 
shape haughty and beautiful, such as 
that of the famous antique statue of 
the huntress Diana, — at one time 
haughty, rapid, imperious, Avith eyes 
and arrows that dart and kill. Harry 
Avatched and Avoudered at this young 
creature, and likened her in his mind 


84 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


to Artemis with the ringing how nnd 
shafts (lashing death upon the children 
of Niobe ; at another time she was 
coy and melting as Luna shining 
tenderly upon Endymion. This fair 
creature, this lustrous Phoebe, was 
only young as yet, nor had nearly 
reached her full splendor ; but crescent 
and brilliant, our young gentleman 
of the University, his head full of 
poetical fancies, his heart perhaps 
throbl)ing with desires undefined, ad- 
mired this rising young divinity ; and 
gazed at her (though only as at some 
“bright particular star,” far above 
his earth) with endless delight and 
Avondcr. She has been a coquette 
from the earliest times almost, trying 
her freaks and jealousies, her way- 
Avard frolics and Avinning caresses, 
upon all that came Avithin her reach ; 
she set her Avomen quarrelling in the 
nursery, and practised her eyes on the 
groom as she rode behind him on the 
pillion. 

She Avas the darling and torment 
of father and mother. She intrigued 
Avith each secretly ; and bestoAved her 
fondness and AvithdrcAV it, plied them 
Avith tears, smiles, kisses, cajolements ; 
— Avhen the mother Avas angry, as 
happened often, flcAv to the father, 
and sheltering behind him, pursued 
her victim ; Avhen both Avere displeased, 
transferred her caresses to the domes- 
tics, or Avatched until she could Avin | 
back her parents’ good graces, either 
by surprising them into laughter and 
good-humor, or appeasing them by 
submission and artful humility. She 
was scevo Iceta negotio, like that fickle 
goddess Horace describes, and of 
whose “ malicious joy ” a great poet 
of our OAvn has Avritfcn so nobly, — 
who, famous and heroic as he Avas, 
Avas not strong enough to resist the 
torture of Avomcn. 

It Avas but three years before that 
the child, then but ten years old, had 
nearly managed to make a quarrel 
betAveen Harry Esmond and his 
comrade, good-natured, ]dilegmatic 
Thomas Tushcr, avIio never of his 
own seeking quarrelled Avith anybody : 


by quoting to the latter some silly 
joke Avhicii Harry had made regard- 
ing him — (it Avas the merest idlest 
jest, though it near drove tAvo old 
friends to bloAvs, and I think such a 
battle Avould have pleased her), — and 
from that day Tom kept at a distance 
from her ; and she respected him, and 
coaxed him sedulously AvheneA’cr they 
met. But Harry Avas much more 
easily appeased, because he Avas fonder 
of the child : and Avhen she made 
mischief, used cutting speeches, or 
caused her friends pain, she excused 
herself for her fault, not by admitting 
and dejiloring it, but by pleading not 
guilty, and asserting innocence so 
constantly, and Avith such seeming 
artlcssncss, that it Avas impossible to 
question her plea. In her ( liildhcod, 
they were but mischiefs then Avhich 
she did ; but her power became more 
fatal as she grew older, — as a kitten 
first plays with a ball, and then 
pounces on a bird and kills it. ’T is 
not to be imagined that Harry Esmond 
had all this experience at this early 
stage of his life, Avhereof he is uoav 
Avriting the liistory, — many things 
here noted Avere but knoAvn to him in 
later days. Almost eA'erything Bea- 
trix did or undid seemed good, or at 
least pardonable, to him then, and 
years afterAvards. 

It hajipened, then, that Harry Es- 
mond came home to CastlcAvood for 
his last vacation, Avith <:ood hopes of 
a fclloAvship at his college, and a con- 
tented resoh e to advance his fortune 
that Avay. ’T Avas in the first year 
of the present century, Mr. Esmond 
I (as far as he kncAV the period of his 
I birth) being then tAAenty-tAvo years 
old. He found his quondam pu])il 
: shot up into this beauty of Avhich Ave 
haA'e spoken, and promising yet more : 
her brotlu'r, my Lord’s son, a hand- 
some high-spirited bruA^e lad, generous 
and frank, and kind to everybody, 
save perhaps his sister, Avitb 'avIioiu 
F rank Avas at Avar (and not from his 
but lier fault) . — adoring his mother, 
Avhose joy he was: and taking her 
side in the unhappy matrimonial dii- 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


85 


ferences which were now permanent, 
while of course Mistress Beatrix 
ranged with her father. When heads 
of families fall out, it must naturally 
be that their dependants wear the one 
or the other party’s color ; and even 
in the parliaments in the servants’ 
hall or the stables, Harry, who had 
an early observant turn, could see 
which were my Lord’s adherents and 
which my Lady’s, and conjecture pretty 
shrewdly how their unlucky quarrel 
was debated. Our lackeys sit in 
judgment on us. My Lord’s intrigues 
may be ever so stealthily conducted, 
but his valet knows them; and my 
Lady’s woman carries her mistress’s 
private history to the servants’ scandal 
market, and exchanges it against the 
secrets of other abigails. 


CPIAPTER XIII. 

MY LORD LEAVES US AND HIS EVIL 
BEHIND HIM. 

My Lord Mohun (of whose ex- 
ploits and fome some of the gentle- 
men of the University had brought 
down but ugly reports) was once more 
a guest at Castlewood, and seemingly 
more intimately allied with my Lord 
even than before. Once in the spring 
these two noblemen had ridden to 
Cambridge from Newmarket, whither 
they had gone for the horse-racing, 
and had honored Harry Esmond with 
a visit at his rooms ; after Avhich Dr. 
Montague, the master of^ the College, 
who had treated Harry somewhat 
haughtily, seeing his familiarity with 
these great folks, and that my Lord 
Castlewood laughed and walked with 
his h and on Harry’s shoulder, relent- 
ed to Mr. Esmond, and condescended 
to be very civil to him ; and some 
days after his arrival, Harry, laugh- 
ing, told this story to Lady Esmond, 
remarking how strange it was that 
men famous for learning and re- 
nowned over Europe, should, never- 
theless, so bow down to a title, and 
cringe to a nobleman ever so poor. 


At this Mistress Beatrix flung up her 
head, and said it became those of low 
origin to respect their betters ; that 
the parsons made themselves a great 
deal too prond, she thought ; and that 
she liked the way at Lady Sark’s 
best, where the chaplain, though he 
loved pudding, as all parsons do, al- 
ways went away before the custard. 

“ And when I am a parson,” says 
Mr. Esmond, “ Avill you give me no 
custard, Beatrix ? ” 

“You — you are different,” Bea- 
trix answered. “ You arc of our 
blood.” 

“ My father was a parson, as you • 
call him,” said my Lady. 

“ But mine is a peer of Ireland,” 
says Mistress Beatrix, tossing her 
head. “ Let people knoAV their places. 

I suppose you will have me go down 
on my knees and ask a blessing of 
Mr. Thomas Tushei', that has just 
been made a curate, and whose moth- 
er was a waiting-maid.” 

And she tossed out of the room, 
being in one of her flighty humors 
then. 

When she was gone, my Lady 
looked so sad and grave, that Harry 
asked the cause of her disquietude. 
She said it was not merely what he 
said of Newmarket, but what she had 
remarked, with great anxiety and 
terror, that my Ijord, ever since his 
acquaintance with the Lord Mohun 
especially, had recurred to his fond- 
ness for play, which be had renounced 
since his marriage. 

‘‘ But men promise more than they 
are able to perform in marriage,” 
said my Lady, with a sigh. “ I fear 
he has lost large sums ; and our prop- 
erty, always small, is dwindling away 
under tiiis reckless dissipation. I 
heard of him in London Avith very 
Avild company. Since his return let- 
ters and lawyers are constantly com- 
ing and going : he seems to me to 
have a constant anxiety, though he 
hides it under boisterousness and 
laughter. I looked through — through 
the door last night, and — and be- 
fore,” said my Lady, “ and saAv them 


86 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


at cards after midnight ; no estate 
will bear that extravagance, much less 
ours, which will be so diminished that 
my son will have nothing at all, and 
my poor Beatrix no portion ! ” 

1 wish 1 eotild help you, madam,” 
said Harry Esmond, sighing, and 
wishing that unavailingly, and for the 
thousandth time in his life. 

“ Who can ? Only God,” said 
Lady Esmond, — “ only God, in 
whose hands we are.” And so it is, 
and for his rule over his family, and 
for his conduct to wife and children, 
— subjects over Avhom his power is 
monarchical, — any one who watches 
the world must think with trembling 
sometimes of the account which many 
a man will have to render. For in 
our society there ’s no law to control 
the King of the Fireside. He is mas- 
ter of property, happiness, — life al- 
most. He is free to punish, to make 
liappy or unhappy, — to ruin or to 
torture. He may kill a wife gradual- 
ly, and be no more questioned than 
the Grand Seignior who drowns a 
slave at midnight. He may make 
slaves and hypocrites of his eluldren ; 
or friends' and freemen ; or drive them 
into revolt and enmity against the 
natural law of love. 1 have heard 
politicians and coffee-house wiseacres 
talking over the newspaper, and rail- 
ing at the tyranny of the French 
king, and the Emperor, and -wondered 
how these (who are monarchs, too, in 
their way) govern their own domin- 
ions at home, where each man rules 
absolute ? When the annals of each 
little reign are shown to the Supreme 
IMaster, under whom we hold sover- 
eignty, histories will be laid bare of 
household tyrants as cruel as Amu- 
rath, and as savage as Nero, and as 
reckless and dissolute as Charles. 

If Harry Esmond’s patron erred, 
’t was in the latter way, from a dis- 
position rather self-indulgent than 
cruel ; and he might have been 
brought back to mucli better feelings, 
had time been given to him to bring 
his repentance to a lasting reform. 

As my Lord and liis friend Lord 


Mohun were such close companions, 
Mistress Beatrix chose to be jealous 
of the latter ; and the two gentlemen 
often entertained each other by laugh- 
ing, in their rude boisterous way, at 
the child’s freaks of anger and show 
of dislike. “ When thou art old 
enough, thou shalt marry Lord 
Mohun,” Beatrix’s father would say : 
on which the girl would pout and 
say, “ I would rather marry Tom 
Tiisher.” And because the Lord 
Mohun always showed an extreme 
gallantry to my Lady Castlcwood, 
whom he professed to admire devot- 
edly, one day, in answer to this old 
joke of her father’s, Beatrix said, 
“ I think my Lord would rather 
marry mamma than marry me ; 
and is waiting till you die to ask 
her.” 

The Avords Avere said lightly and 
pertly by the girl one night before 
supper, as the family party Avere 
assembled near the great fire. The 
tAvo lords, Avlio Avere at cards, both 
gaA^e a start ; my Lady turned as red 
as scarlet, and hade Mistress Beatrix 
go to her own chamber; Avhereupon 
the girl, putting on, as her AA'ont Avas, 
the most innocent air, said, “ I am 
sure I meant no Avrong ; I am sure 
mamma talks a great deal more to 
Harry Esmond than she does to papa, 
— and she cried Avhen Harry Avent 
aAvay, and she neAxr does Avhen papa 
goes aAvay ! and last night she talked 
to Lord Mohun for CA'er so long, and 
sent us out of the room, and cried 
Avhen Ave came back, and — ” 

“ D n ! ” cried out my Lord 

CastleAA'ood, out of all patience. 
“ Go out of the room, you little 
viper ! ” and he started up and flung 
doAvn his cards. 

“ Ask Lord Mohun Avhat I said to 
him, Francis,” her Ladyship said, 
rising up Avith a scared face, but yet 
Avith a great and touching dignity 
and candor in her look and A’oice. 
“ Come aAvay Avitli me, Beatrix.” 
Beatrix sprung up too ; she Avas in 
tears noAv. 

“ Dearest mamma, Avhat have I 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESJIOND. 


87 


done ? ” she asked. ‘‘ Sure I meant 
no harm.” And she eluno^ to her 
mother, and the pair went out sobbing 
together. 

“ I will tell you what your wife 
said to mo, Frank,” my Lord Mohun 
cried. “ Parson Harry may hear it ; 
and, as I hope for heaven, every 
word I say is true. Last night, with 
tears in her eyes, your wife implored 
me to play no more with you at dice 
or at cards, and you know best 
whether what she asked was not for 
your good.” 

“ Of course, it was, Mohun,” says 
my Lord, in a dry hard voice. “ Of 
course you are a model of a man : 
and the world knows what a saint 
you are.” 

My Lord Mohun was separated 
from his wife, and had had many 
affairs of honor : of wliieh women as 
usual had been the cause. 

“ I am no saint, though your wife 
is, — and I can answer for my actions 
as other people must for their words,” 
said my Lord Mohun. 

“By G — , my Lord, yon shall,” 
cried the other, starting up. 

“ We have another little account to 
settle first, my Lord,” says Lord 
Mohun. Whereupon Harry Esmond, 
filled with alarm for the consccpiences 
to which this disastrous dispute 
might lead, broke out into the most 
vehement expostulations with his 
patron and his adversary. “ Gracious 
Heavens ! ” he said, “ my Lord, are 
you going to draw a sword upon 
your friend in your own house 1 Can 
you doubt the honor of a lady who 
is as pure as Heaven, and would die 
a thousand times_ rather than do you 
a wrong ? Are the idle words 
of a jealous child to set friends at 
variance? Has not my mistress, as 
much as she dared to, besought your 
Lordship, as the truth must be told, 
to break your intimacy with my Lord 
Mohun ; and to give up the habit 
which may bring ruin on your fomily ? 
But for my Lord Mohun’s illness, 
had he not left you ? ” 

“ ’Faith, Frank, a man with a 


gouty toe can’t run after other men’s 
Avives,” broke out my Lord Mohun, 
Avho indeed Avas in that AAmy, and Avith 
a laugh and a look at his SAvathed 
limb so frank and comical, that the 
other dashing his fist across his fore- 
head Avas caught by that infectious 
good-humor, and said Avitb his oath, 

“ it, Harry, I believe thee,” and 

so this quarrel Avas over, and the tAvo 
gentlemen, at SAvords draAvn but just 
noAv, dropped their points, and shook 
hands. 

Bead pacifici. “ Go, bring my Lady 
back,” said Harry’s patron. Esmond 
Avent aAvay only too glad to be the 
bearer of such good ncAvs. He found 
her at the door ; she had been listen- 
ing there, but Avent back as he came. 
She took both his hands, hers AA^cre 
marble cold. She seemed as if she 
Avould fall on his shoulder. “ Thank 
you, and God bless you, my dear 
brother Harry,” she said. She kissed 
his hand, Esmond felt her tears upon 
it ; and leading her into tlie room, and 
up to my Lord, the Lord CastlcAvood, 
Avith an outbreak of feeling and affec- 
tion such as he had not exhibited for 
many a long day, took his Avife to his 
heart, and bent OA'cr and kissed her 
and asked her pardon. 

“ ’T is time for me to go to roost. 

I Avill have my gruel abed,” said my 
Lord Mohun ; and limped off comi- 
cally on Harry Esmond’s arm. “ By 
George, that AV'oman is a pearl ! ” he 
said ; “ and ’t is only a pig that AA'ould 
n’t value her. IluA’e you seen the 
vulgar trapesing orange-girl Avhoni 
Esmond ” — but hei’e Mr. Esmond 
interrupted him, saying, that these 
Avere not affairs for liim to knoAv. 

My Lord’s gentleman came in to 
Avait upon his master, Avho Avas no 
sooner in his nightcap and dressing- 
gOAvn than he had another visitor 
Avhom his host insisted on sending to 
him : and this Avas no other than the 
Lady CastlcAvood herself Avitli the _ 
toast and gruel, Avhieh her husband 
bade her make and carry Avith her own 
hands in to her guest. 

Lord CastlcAVOod stood looking 


88 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


after his wife as she went on this er- 
rand, and as he looked, Harry Es- 
mond could not but gaze on him, and 
remarked in his patron’s face an ex- 
pression of love, and grief, and care, 
which very much moved and touched 
the young man. Lord Castlewood’s 
hands fell down at his sides, and his 
head on his breast, and presently he 
said, — 

“ You heard what Mohun said, 
parson 'f ” 

“ That my Lady was a saint ? ” 

“ That there are two accounts to 
settle. I have been going wrong 
these five years, Harry Esmond. 
Ever since you brought that damned 
small-pox into the house, there has 
been a fate jjursuing me, and I had 
best have died of it, and not run away 
from it like a coward. I left Beatrix 
with her relations, and went to Lon- 
don ; and I fell among thieves, Harry, 
and I got back to confounded cards 
and dice, which I had n’t touched 
since my marriage, — no, not since 
I was in the Duke’s Guard, with 
those wild Mohocks. And I have 
been playing worse and worse, and 
going deeper and deeper into it ; and 
I owe Mohun two thousand pounds 
now ; and when it ’s paid I am little 
better than a beggar. I don’t like to 
look my boy in the face ; he hates 
me, I know he does. And I have 
spent Beaty’s little portion ; and the 
Lord knows what will come if I live ; 
the best thing I can do is to die, and 
release what portion of the estate is 
redeemable for the boy.” 

Mohun was as much master at 
Castlewood as the owner of the Hall 
itself; and his equipages filled the 
stables, where, indeed, there was room 
in plenty for many more horses than 
Harry PIsmond’s impoverished patron 
could afford to keep. He had arrived 
on horseback Avith his people ; but 
when his gout broke out my Lord 
Mohun sent to I^ondon for a light 
chaise he had, draAvn by a pair of 
small horses, and running as swift, 
wherever roads were good, as a Lap- 
lander’s sledge. When this carriage 


came, his Lordship was eager to drive 
the Lady Castlewood abroad in it, 
and did so many times, and at a rapid 
pace, greatly to his com]janion’s en- 
joyment, who loved the swift motion 
and the healthy breezes over the 
downs which lie hard upon Castle- 
wood, and stretch thence towards the 
sea. As this amusement Avas A^cry 
pleasant to her, and her Lord, I’ai 
from shoAving any mistrust of her inti- 
macy with Lord Mohun, encouraged 
her to be his companion, — as if Avill- 
ing by his present extreme confidence 
to make up for any past mistrust 
AA’hich his jealousy had shoAvn, — the 
Lady CastlcAvood enjoyed herself 
freely in this harmless diA^ersion, 
Avhich, it must be OAv-ned, her guest 
was very eager to give her; and it 
seemed that she grew the more free 
Avith Lord Mohun, and pleased Avith 
his company, because of some sacri- 
fice Avhich his gallantry Avas pleased 
to make in her favor. 

Seeing the two gentlemen constant- 
ly at cards still of evenings, Harry 
Esmond one day deplored to his mis- 
tress that this fatal infatuation of her 
lord should continue ; and noAv they 
seemed reconciled together, begged 
his lady to hint to her husband that 
he should play no more. 

But Lady CastlcAvood, smiling 
archly and gayly, said she Avould 
speak to him presently, and that, for 
a fcAv nights more at least, he might 
be let to have his amusement. 

“ Indeed, madam,” said IlaiTy, 
“you knoAV not Avhat it costs you; 
and ’t is easy for any observer Avho 
knows the game, to see that Lord Mo- 
hun is by far the stronger of the tAvo.” 

“ I knoAv he is,” says my Lady, 
still Avith exceeding good-humor ; “ he 
is not only the best player, but the 
kindest player in the Avorld.” 

“ Madam, madam ! ” Esmond cried, 
transported and provoked. “ Debts 
of honor must be paid some time or 
other ; and my master Avill be ruined 
if he goes on.” 

“ Harry, shall I tell you a secret ? ” 
my Lady replied, with kindness and 


THE IIISTOEY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


89 


pleasure still in lier eyes. “ Franc's 
will not be ruined if he goes on ; ho 
will be rescue I if ho goes on. I re- 
pent of having spoken and thought 
unkindly of the Lord Mohun when 
ho Avns here in the past year. He is 
full of much kindness and good ; and 
't is my belief that we shall bring 
liiin to belter things. I have lent 
him ‘ Tillotson ^ and your favorite 
‘Bisliop Taylor/ and ho is much 
touched, he says ; and as a proof of 
his repentance — (and herein lies my 
secret) — w!i it do you think he is 
doing with Francis 1 He is letting 
poor Fi'ank win his money back 
again. He hatli won already at the 
last four nights ; and my Lord Mo- 
han says that he will not be the means 
of injuring poor Frank and my dear 
children.” 

“ And in God’s name, what do you 
return him for the saerihee 1 ” asked 
Esmond, aghast ; who knew enough 
of men, and of this one in particular, 
to be aware that such a finished rake 
gave nothing for nothing. “ How, in 
Heaven’s name, arc you to pay 
him ? ” 

“ Pay him ! With a mother’s bless- 
ing and a wife’s prayers ! ” cries 
*my Lady, clasping her hands togeth- 
er. Harry Esmond did not know 
whether to laugh, to be angry, or to 
love his dear mistress more than ever 
for the obstinate innocency with 
which she chose to regard the conduct 
of a man of the v/orld, whose designs 
he knew better how to interpret. Ho 
told the lady, guardedly, but so as to 
make his meaning quite clear to her, 
what he knew in respect of the former 
life and conduct of this nobleman ; 
of other women against whom he had 
plotted, and whom he had overcome ; 
of the conversation Avhich he, Harry 
liimself, had had with Lord Mohun, 
wherein the lord made a boast of his 
libertinism, and frequently avowed 
that he held all women to be fair 
game (as his Lordsliip styled this 
pretty sport), and that they were all, 
without exception, to be won. And 
the return Harry had for his entrea- 


ties and remonstrances was a fit of 
anger on Lady Castlewood’s part, 
who would not listen to his accusa- 
tions ; she said and retorted that he 
himself must be very wicked and per- 
verted to suppose evil designs wiicrc 
she was sure none were meant. 
“ And this is the good meddlers get 
of mterfering,” Harry thought to 
himself with much bitterness ; and his 
perplexity and annoyance were only 
tile greater, because he could not 
speak to my Lord Castlewood him- 
self upon a subject of this nature, or 
venture to advise or warn liiin regard- 
ing a matter so very sacred as his 
own honor, of which my Lord was’ 
naturally the best guardian. 

But though Lady Castlewood 
would listen to no a(lvicc from her 
young dependant, and appeared in- 
dignantly to refuse it when offered, 
Hirry had the satisfaction to find 
t!iat she adopted the counsel which 
she professed to reject ; for the next 
day she pleaded a headache, when 
my Lord Mohun would have had her 
drive out, and the next day the head- 
ache continued ; and next dav, in a 
laughing gay way. she proposed th it 
the children should take her place in 
his Lordship’s car, for they would bo 
charmed with a ride of all things ; 
and she must not have all the pleas- 
ure for herself. My Lord gave them 
a drive with a very good grace, 
though, I dare say, with rage and 
disappointment inwai'dly, — not that 
his heart was very seriously engaged 
in his designs upon this simple lady : 
but the life of such men is often one 
of intrigue, and they can no more go 
through the day without a woman to 
pursue, than a fox-hunter without his 
sport after breakfast. 

Under an affected carelessness of 
demeanor, and though there was no 
outward demonstration of doubt upon 
his patron’s part since the quarrel 
between the two lords, Harry yet 
saw that Lord Castlewood was watch- 
ing his guest verv narrowly ; and 
caught sight of distrust and smoth- 
ered rage (as Harry thought) which 


90 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


foreboded no good. On the point of 
honor Esmond knew how touchy his 
patron was ; and watched him almost 
as a physician watches a patient, and 
it seemed to him that this one Avas 
slow to take the disease, though he 
could not throw oft* the poison when 
once it had mingled with his blood. 
We read in Shakespeare (whom the 
writer for his part considers to be far 
beyond Mr. Congreve, Mr. Dryden, 
or any of the Avits of the present 
period), that Avhen jealousy is once 
declared, nor poppy, nor mandragora, 
nor all the droAV'sy sirups of the 
East, Avill ever soothe it or medicine 
it aAvay. 

In fine, the symptoms seemed to be 
so alarming to this young physician 
(avIio, indeed, young as he Avas, had 
felt the kind pulses of all those dear 
kinsmen), that Harry thought it 
Avould be his duty to Avarn my Lord 
Mohun, and let him knoAV that his 
designs Avere suspected, and Avatched. 
So one day, Avhen in rather a pettish 
humor, his Lordship had sent to Lady 
CastleAvood, AAdio had promised to 
drh'e Avith him and noAv refused to 
come, Harry said, — “ My Lord, if 
you Avill kindly give me a place by 
your side, I Avill thank you ; I have 
much to say to you, and Avould like 
to speak to you alone.” 

“ You honor me by giA'ing me your 
confidence, Mr. Henry Esmond,” says 
the other, Avith a very grand boAV. 
My Lord Avas ahvays a fine gentle- 
man, and, young as he Avas, there 
Avas that in Esmond’s manner Avhicli 
shoAved that he Avas a gentleman too, 
and that none might take a liberty 
Avith him, — so the pair Avent out and 
mounted the little carriage, which 
Avas in Avaiting for them in the court, 
Avith its two little cream-colored Han- 
overian horses covered with splen- 
did furniture and champing at the 
bit. 

“ My Lord,” says Harry Esmond, 
after they Averc got into the country, 
and pointing to my Lord Mohun’s 
foot, Avhich Avas SAvathed in flannel, 
and put ttp rather ostentatiously on a 


cushion, — my Lord, I studied med'- 
icine at Cambridge.” 

“ Indeed, Parson Harry,” says he ; 
“ and arc you going to take out a di- 
ploma : and cure your felloAV-s Indents 
of the — ” 

“ Of the gout,” says Harry, inter- 
rupting him, and looking him hard 
in the face ; “ I knoAV a good deal 
about the gout.” 

“ I hope you may ncA'cr have it. 
’T is an inlernal disease,” says my 
Lord, “ and its tAvinges are diabolical. 
Ah ! ” and he made a dreadful Avry 
face, as if he just felt a tAvinge. 

“ Your Lordship Avould be much 
better if you took off all that flannel, 
— it only seiTCS to inflame the toe,” 
Harry continued, looking his man full 
in the face. 

“ Oh ! it only serves to inflame .the 
toe, does it 'i ” says the other, Avith 
an innocent air. 

“ If you took off that flannel, and 
flung that absurd slipper aAvay, and 
Avore a boot,” continues Harry. 

“ You recommend me boots, Mr. 
Esmond 1 ” asks my Lord. 

“ Yes, boots and spurs. I saAV 
your Lordship three days ago run 
doAvn the gallery fast enough,” Harry 
goes on. “ I am sure that taking 
gruel at night is not so pleasant as 
claret to your Lordship, and besides 
it keeps your Lordship’s head cool 
for play, Avhilst my jiatron’s is hot 
and flustered Avith drink.” 

“ ’Sdeath, sir, you dare not say 
that I don’t play fair ? ” cries my 
Lord, Avhipping bis horses, Avhich 
Avent aAvay at a gallop. 

“ You are cool Avhen my Lord is 
drunk,” Harry continued ; “ your 

Lordship gets the better of my patron. 
I haA^e Avatched you as I looked up 
from my books.” 

“You young Argus ! ” says Lord 
Mohun, Avho liked Harry Esmond, — 
and for Avhose company and Avit, and 
a certain daring manner, Harry had 
a great liking, too, — “ you young 
Argus ! you may look Avith all your 
hundred eyes and see Ave ])]ay lair. 
I ’ve played aAvay an estate of a^night. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


91 


mid I Vc played my shirt off my 
back ; and 1 Ve playeil avva}’’ my per- 
iwig and gone home in a nightcap. 
But no man can say I ever took an 
advantage of him beyond the advan- 
tage of the game. 1 played a dice- 
cogging scoundrel in Alsatia for his 
cars and won Vm, and have one of 
'em in my lodging in Bow Street in 
a bottle of spirits. Harry Mohun 
will play any man for anything, — 
always would.” 

“ You are playing awful stakes, 
my Lord, in my patron’s house,” 
Harry said, “ and more games than 
arc on the cards.” 

“ AVhat do you mean, sir 1 ” cries 
my Lord, turning round, with a flush 
on his face. 

“ I mean,” answers Harry, in a 
sarcastic tone, “ that your gout is 
well, — if ever you had it.” 

“ Sir ! ” cried my Lord, getting hot. 

“And, to tell the truth, I believe 
your Lordship has no more gout than 
I liave. At any rate, change of air 
will do you good, my Lord Mohun. 
And I mean fairly that you had bet- 
ter go from Castlewood.” 

“ And were you appointed to give 
me this message 1 ” cries the Lord 
Mohun. “ Did Frank Esmond com- 
mission you ? ” 

“ No one did. 'T was the honor 
of my family that commissioned me.” 

“ And you are prepared to answer 
this ? ” cries the other, furiously lash- 
ing his horses. 

“ Quite, my Lord : your Lordship 
will upset the carriage if you whip so 
hotly.” 

“ By George, you have a brave 
spirit ! ” my Lord cried out, bursting 
into a laugh. “ I suppose ’t is that 
infernal botle de Jesuite that makes 
you so bold,” he added. 

“ ’T is the peace of the fltmily I 
love best in the world,” Harry Es- 
mond said warmly, — “ ’t is the hon- 
or of a noble benefactor, — the happi- 
ness of my dear mistress and her chil- 
dren. I owe them everything in life, 
my Lord ; and would lay it down for 
any one of them. What brings you 


here to disturb this quiet household ? 
What keeps you lingering month 
after month in the country f What 
makes you feign illness and invent 
pretexts for delay '? Is it to win my 
poor patron’s money 1 Be generous, 
my Lord, and spare his weakness for 
the sake of bis wife and children. Is 
it to practise upon the simple heart 
of a virtuous lady 1 You might as 
well stonp the Tower single-handed. 
But you may blemish her name by 
light comments on it, or by lawless 
pursuits, — and I don’t deny that ’t is 
in your power to make her unhappy. 
Spare these innocent people, and leave 
them.” 

“ By the Lord, I believe thou hast 
an eye to the pretty Puritan thyself, 
Master Harry,” says my Lord, with 
his reckless, good - humored laugh, 
and as if he had been listening with 
interest to the passionate appeal of 
the young man. “ Whisper, Harry. 
Art thou in love with her thyself ? 
Hath tipsy Frank Esmond come by 
the way of all flesh 1 ” 

“ My Lord, my Lord,” cried Har- 
ry, his face flushing and his eyes fill- 
ing as he spoke, “ I never had a 
mother, but I Ioa’c this lady as one. 
I worship her as a devotee wor- 
ships a saint. To hear her name 
spoken lightly seems blasphemy to me. 
Would you dare think of your own 
mother so, or suffer any one so to 
speak of her It is a horror to me 
to fancy that any man should think 
of her impurely. I implore you, I 
beseech you, to leave her. Danger 
will come out of it.” 

“ Danger, psha ! ” says my Lord, 
giving a cut to the horses, which at 
this minute — for we were got on to 
the Downs — fairly ran off into a 
gallop that no pulling could stop. 
The rein broke in Lord Mohun’s 
hands, and the furious beasts scam- 
pered madly forwards, the carriage 
swaying to and fro, and the ])ersons 
within it holding on to the sides as 
best they might, until seeing a great 
ravine before them, where an upset 
was inevitable, the two gentlemen 


92 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


leapt for their lives, each out of his 
side of the chaise. Harry Esmond 
was quit for a fall on the grass, which 
was so severe that it stunned him for 
a minute ; hut he got up presently 
very sick, and bleeding at the nose, 
but with no other hurt. Tlie Lord 
Mohun was not so fortunate ; he fell 
on his head against a stone, and lay 
on the ground, dead to all appear- 
ance. 

I'liis misadventure happened as the 
gentlemen were on their leturn home- 
wards ; and my Lord Castlewood, 
with his son and daughter, who were 
going out for a ride, met the ponies 
as they were galloping with the car 
behind, the broken traces entangling 
their heels, and my Lord’s people 
turned and stopped them. It was 
young Frank who spied out Lord 
Mohun’s scarlet coat as he lay on the 
ground, and the party made up to 
that unfortunate gentleman and Es- 
mond, who was now standing over 
him. His large periwig and feathered 
hat had fiillcn olf, and he* was bleed- 
ing profusely from a wound on the 
forehead, and looking, and being, in- 
deed, a corpse. 

“ Great God ! he ’s dead ! ” says 
my Lord. “ Ride, some one : fetch 
a doctor — stay. I T1 go home and 
bring back Tusher ; he knows sur- 
gery,” and my Lord, with his son 
after him, galloped away. 

They were scarce gone when Har- 
ry Esmond, who was indeed but just 
come to himself, bethought him of a 
similar accident which he had seen 
on a ride from Newmarket to Cam- 
bridge, and taking off a sleeve of my 
Lord’s coat, Harry, with a penknife, 
opened a vein in his arm, and was 
greatly relieved, after a moment, to 
see the blood flow. He was near 
half an hour before he came to him- 
self, by which time Doctor Tusher 
and little Frank arrived, and found 
my Lord not a corpse indeed, but as 
pale as one. 

After a time, when he was able to 
bear motion, they put my Lord upon 
a groom’s horse, and gave the other 


to Esmond, the men walking on each 
side of my Lord, to support him, if 
need were, and worthy Doctor Tusher 
with them. Little Frank and Harry 
rode together at a foot pace. 

When we rode together home, the 
boy said : “ We met mamma, who 
was walking on the terrace with the 
Doctor, and papa frightened her, and 
told her you were dead ...” 

“ That 1 was dead? ” asks Harry. 

“ Yes. Papa says : ‘ Here ’s poor 
Harry killed, my dear ’ ; on Avhich 
mamma gives a great scream ; and 

0 Harry ! she drops down ; and I 
thought she was dead, too. And you 
never saw such a way as pa]>a was in : 
he swore one of his great oaths: and he 
turned quite pale ; and then he began 
to laugh somehow, and he told the 
Doctor to take his horse, and me to 
follow him ; and avc left him. And 

1 looked back, and saw him dashing 
Avater out of the fountain on to mam- 
ma. O, she Avas so frightened ! ” 

Musing upon this curious history, 
— for my Lord Mohim’s name Avas 
Henry too, and they called each other 
Frank and Harry often, — and not a 
little disturbed and anxious, Esmond 
rode home. His dear lady Avas on the 
terrace still, one of her Avomen Avitli 
her, and my Lord no longer there. 
There are steps and a little door 
thence doAvn into the road. My Lord 
passed, looking A’ery ghastly, Avith a 
handkerchief over his head, and Avith- 
out his hat and periAvig, Avhich a groom 
carried, but his politeness did not 
desert him, and he made a boAv to the 
lady above. 

“ Thank Heaven you are safe,” she 
said. 

“ And so is Harry too, mamma,” 
says little Frank, — “ huzzay ! ” 

Harry Esmond got off the horse to 
run to his mistress, as did little Frank, 
and one of the grooms took charge of 
the tAAO beasts, while the other, hat 
and periAvig in hand, Avalked by my 
Lord’s bridle to the front gate, Avhicii 
lay half a mile aAvay. 

“ O my boy ! Avhat a fi'ight you have 
given me ! ” Lady CastlcAvood said. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


93 


when Hfirry Esmond came up, grect- 
ing him witli one of her sliiniiig 
looks, and a voice of tender welcome ; 
and she was so kind as to kiss the 
young man (T was the second time 
she had so honored him), and she 
walked into the house between him 
and her son, holding a hand of 
each, 

— • — 

CHAPTER XIV. 

WE RIDE AFTER HIM TO LONDON. 

After a repose of a couple of days, 
the Lord Mohun was so far 'recovered 
of his hurt as to be able to announce 
his departure for the next morning ; 
when, accordingly, he took leave of 
Castlewood, proposing to ride to Lon- 
don by easy stages, and lie two nights 
upon the road. His host treated him 
with a studied and ceremonious cour- 
tesy, certainly different from my Lord’s 
usual frank and careless demeanor ; 
but there was no reason to suppose 
that the two lords parted otherwise 
than good friends, though Harry Es- 
mond remarked that my Lord Vis- 
count only saw his guest in company 
with other persons, and seemed to 
avoid being alone with him. Nor 
did he ride any distance with Lord 
Mohun, as his custom was with most 
of his friends, whom he was always 
eager to welcome and unwilling to 
lose ; but contented himself, when his 
Lordship’s horses were announced, 
and their owner appeared, booted for 
his journey, to take a courteous leave 
of the ladies of Castlewood, by follow- 
ing the Lord Mohun down stairs to 
his horses, and by bowing and wish- 
ing him a good-day, in the court-yard. 
“ I shall see you in London before 
very long, Mohun,” my Lord said, 
with a smile ; “ when we will settle 
our accounts together.” 

“ Do not let them trouble you, 
Frank,” said the other good-naturedly, 
and holding out his hand, looked rath- 
er surprised at the grim and stately 
manner in which his host received his 


parting salutation ; and so, followed 
by his people, he rode away. 

Harry Esmond was witness of the 
departure. It was very different to 
my Lord’s coming, for which great 
preparation had been made (the old 
house putting on its best appearance 
to welcome its guest), and there Avas 
a sadness and constraint about all 
persons that day, which fjlled Mr. 
Esmond Avith gloomy forebodings, 
and sad indefinite apprehensions. 
Lord Castlewood stood at the door 
Avatching his guest and his people as 
they went out under the arch of the 
outer gate. When he Avas there. Lord 
Mohun turned once more, my Lord 
Viscount slowly raised his beaver and 
boAA'ed. His face Avore a peculiar livid 
look, Harry thought. He cursed and 
kicked aAvay his dogs, Avhich came 
jumping about him, — then he Avalked 
up to the fountain in the centre of the 
court, and leaned against a pillar and 
looked into the basin. As Esmond 
crossed over to his OAvn room, late the 
chaplain’s, on the other side of the 
court, and turned to enter in at the 
loAV door, he saAV Lady CastlcAvood 
looking through the curtains of the 
great Avindow of the draAving-room 
overhead, at my Lord as he stood re- 
garding the fountain There Avas in 
the court a peculiar silence somehoAv ; 
and the scene remained long in Es- 
mond’s memory : — the sky bright 
overhead ; the buttresses of the build- 
ing and the sun-dial casting slnidoAV 
over the gilt memento mori inscribed 
underneath ; the tAvo dogs, a black 
greyhound and a spaniel nearly Avhite, 
the one Avith his face up to the sun, 
and the other snuffing amongst the 
grass and stones, and my Lord leaning 
over the fountain, Avhich was bubbling 
audibly. ’T is strange hoAv that 
scene, and the sound of that fountain, 
remain fixed on the memory of a man 
Avho has beheld a hundred sights of 
splendor and danger too, of Avhich he 
has kept no account. 

It was Lady CastlcAvood, — she had 
been laughing all the morning, and 
especially gay and lively before her 


94 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


husband and his guest, — Avho as soon 
as the two gentlemen went together 
from her room, ran to Harry, the ex- 
pression of her countenance quite 
changed noAV, and with a face and 
eyes full of care, and said, “Follow 
them, Harry, I am sure something 
has gone wrong.’’ And so it was 
that Esmond was made an eavesdrop- 
per at this lady’s orders : and retired 
to his own chamber, to give himself 
time in truth to try and compose a 
story which would soothe his mistress, 
for he could not but have his own 
apprehension that some serious quar- 
rel was pending between the two 
gentlemen. 

And now for several days the little 
comi)any at Castlcwood sat at table 
as of evenings : this care, though un- 
named and invisible, being neverthe- 
less present alway, in the minds of at 
least three persons there. My Lord 
was exceeding gentle and kind. 
Whenever he quitted the room, his 
wife’s eyes followed him. He behaved 
to her with a kind of mournful cour- 
tesy and kindness remarkable in one 
of his blunt ways and ordinary rough 
manner. He called her by her Chris- 
tian name often and fondly, was very 
soft and gentle with the children, 
especially with the boy, whom he did 
not love, and being lax about church 
generally, he went thither and per- 
formed all the offices (down even to 
listening to Dr. Tusher’s sermon) 
with great devotion. 

“ He ])aces his room all night ; 
what is it % Henry, find out what it 
is,” Lady Castlewood said constantly 
to her young dependant. “ He has 
sent three letters to London,” she 
said, another day. 

“ Indeed, madam, they were to a 
lawyer,” Harry answered, who knew 
of these letters, and had seen a part of 
the eorrespondence, which related to 
a new loan my Lord was raising; 
and when the young man remonstrat- 
ed Avith his patron, my Lord said, 
“ He Avas only raising money to pay 
off an old debt on the property, Avhich 
must be discharged.” 


Regarding the money, Lady Castlc- 
Avood Avas Jiot in the least anxious. 
Fcav fond Avomen feel money-distress- 
ed ; indeed you can hardly give a 
Avoman a greater pleasure than to hid 
her ])aAvn her diamonds for the man 
she loves ; and I remember hearing 
Mr. Congreve say of my Lord JMarl- 
borough, that the reason Avhy my 
Lord Avas so successful Avith Avomen 
as a young man, Avas because he took 
money of them. “ There are fcAv 
men Avho Avill make such a sacrifice 
for them,” says Mr. Congreve, Avho 
kncAV a part of the sex pretty Avell. 

Harry Esmond’s vacation was just 
over, and, as hath been said, he Avas 
preparing to return to the UniA crsity 
for his last term before taking his 
degree and entering into the Church. 
He had made up his mind for this 
office, not indeed AA'ith that reverence 
Avhich becomes a man about to enter 
upon a duty so holy, but Avith a 
worldly spirit of acquiescence in the 
prudence of adopting that profession 
for his calling. But his reasoning 
Avas that he OAved all to the family of 
CastlcAvood, and loved better to be 
near them than anyAvhere else in the 
Avorld ; that he might be useful to his 
bcnefactoi's, Avho had the utmost con- 
fidence in him and affection for him 
in return ; that he might aid in bring- 
ing up the young heir of the house 
and acting as his governor; that he 
might continue to be his dear patron’s 
and mistress’s friend and adviser, avIio 
both AA'cre pleased to say that they 
should CA'er look upon him as such ; 
and so, by making himself useful to 
those he loved best, he proposed to 
console himself for giving uj) of any 
schemes of ambition Avhich he might 
have had in his OAvn bosom. Indeed, 
his mistress had told him that she 
Avould not have him leave her ; and 
whatever she commanded Avas Avill to 
him. 

The Lady CastleAvood’s mind Avas 
greatly relieA'cd in the last fcAV days 
of this Avell-remembered holidav time, 
by my Lord’s announcing one" morn- 
ing, after the post had brought him 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


95 


letters from London, in a careless 
tone, that the Lord Mohun Avas gone 
to Paris, and Avas about to make a 
great journey in Europe; and though 
Lord CastlcAvood’s OAvn gloom did 
not AAxar off, or his behaAuor alter, 
yet this cause of anxiety being re- 
moATd from his Lady’s mind, she be- 
gan to be more hopeful and easy in 
her spirits, striA’ing too, Avith all her 
heart, and by all the means of sooth- 
ing in her poAA’er, to call back my 
Lord’s cheerfulness and dissipate his 
moody humor. 

lie accounted for it himself, by 
saying that he Avas out of health ; 
that he AA'anted to see his physician ; 
that he Avould go to London, 
and consult Doctor Cheyne. It Avas 
agreed that his Lordship and Harry 
Esmond should make the journey as 
far as London together ; and of a 
IMonday morning the 10th of October, 
in the year 1700, they set forAvards 
tOAvards London on horseback. The 
day before being Sunday, and the 
rain pouring down, the family did 
not visit church ; and at night my 
Lord read the service to his family 
very finely, and Avith a peculiar sAveet- 
ness and graAuty, — speaking the 
parting benediction, Harry thought, 
ns solemn as ever he heard it. And 
he kissed and embraced his Avife and 
children before they Avent to their 
OAvn chambers Avith more fondness 
than he Avas ordinarily Avont to show, 
and Avith a solemnity and feeling of 
which they thought in after days 
with no small comfort. 

They took horse the next morning 
(after adieus from the family as ten- 
der as on the night previous), lay 
that night on the road, and entered 
London at nightfall ; my Lord going 
to the “ Trumpet,” in the Cockpit, 
S\’^n tell all, a house used by the mili- 
tary in his time as a young man, and 
accustomed by his Lordship ever since. 

An hour after my Lord’s arrival 
(Avhich showed that his visit had 
been arranged beforehand), my 
Lord’s man of business arrived from 
Gray’s Inn ; and thinking that his 


patron might Avish to be private Avith 
the laAA’yer, Esmond Avas for leaving 
them : but my Lord said his business 
Avas short ; introduced Mr. Esmond 
particularly to the hiAvyer, Avho liad 
been engaged for the family in the 
old lord’s time ; aaLo said that he 
had paid the money, as desired that 
day, to my Lord Mohun liimself, at 
his lodgings in Boav Street ; that his 
Lordship had expressed some sur- 
prise, as it Avas not customary to em- 
ploy laAvyers, he said, in such trans- 
actions betAveen men of honor ; but 
ncA'^ertheless, he had returned my 
Lord Viscount’s note of hand, Avhieh 
he held at his client’s disposition. 

“ I thought the Lord Mohun had 
been in Paris ! ” cried Mr. Esmond, 
in great alarm and astonishment. 

“ He is come back at my invita- 
tion,” said my Lord Viscount. “ We 
have accounts to settle together.” 

“ 1 pray Heaven they are over, 
sir,” says Esmond. 

“ O, quite,” replied the other, look- 
ing hard at the young man. “ He 
was rather troublesome about that 
money Avhich I told you I had lost to 
him at play. And noAV ’t is paid, and 
Ave are quits on that score, and Ave 
shall meet good friends again.” 

“ My Lord,” cried out Esmond, 
“ I am sure you are deceiving me, 
and that there is a quarrel betAV'een 
the Lord Mohun and you.” 

“Quarrel — pish!. We shall sup 
together this A^ery night, and drink a 
bottle. EA'ery man is ill-humored 
Avho loses such a sum as I have lost. 
But noAv ’t is paid, and my anger has 
gone Avith it.” 

“ Where shall we sup, sir ? ” says 
Harry. 

“ JVe/ Let some gentlemen Av^ait 
till they are asked,” says my Lord 
Viscount, Avith a laugh. “ You go 
to Duke Street, and see Mr. Better- 
ton. Y'ou love the play, I knoAV. 
Leave me to folloAv my OAvn devices : 
and in the morning Ave ’ll breakfast 
together, Avith Avhat appetite Ave may, 
as the play says.” 

“By G — ! my Lord, I Avill not 


9G 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


leave you this night/’ says Harry 
Esmond. “ I think I know the 
cause of your dispute. I swear to 
you ’t is nothing. On the very day 
tlie accident befell Lord Mohun, I 
was speaking to him about it. I ! 
know that nothing has passed but 
idle gallantry on his part.” 

“You know that nothing has passed 
but idle gallantry between Lord Mo- 
hun and my wife,” says my Lord, in a 
thundering voice, — “you knew of 
this and did not tell me 1 ” 

“ I knew more of it than my dear 
mistress did herself, sir, — a thousand 
times more. How was she, who was 
as innocent as a child, to know what 
was the meaning of the covert ad- 
dresses of a villain ? ” 

“A villain he is,you allow, and would 
have taken my wife away from me.” 

“ Sir, she is as pure as an angel,” 
cried young Esmond. 

“ Have I said a word against 
her ? ” shrieks out my Lord. “ Did 
I ever doubt that she was pure ? It 
would have been the last day of her 
life when I did. Do you fancy I 
think that she would go astray 1 No, 
she has n’t passion enough for that. 
She neither sins nor forgives. I 
know her temper, — and now I ’ve 
lost her, by Heaven I love her ten 
thousand times more than ever I did, 
— yes, when she was young and 
as beautiful as an angel, — when she 
smiled at me in her old father’s house, 
and used to lie in wait for me there 
as I came from hunting, — when I 
used to fling my head down on her 
little knees and cry like a child on her 
lap, — and swear I would reform, and 
drink no more, and play no more, and 
follow women no more ; when all the 
men of the Court used to be following 
her, — when she used to look with her 
child more beautiful, by George, than 
the Madonna in the Queen’s Chapel. 

I am not good like her, I know it. 
Who is, — by Heaven, who is ? I 
tired and wearied her, I know that 
very well. I could not talk to her. 
You men of wit and books could do 
that, and I could n’t, — I felt I could 


n’t. Why, when you was but a boy 
of fifteen I could hear you two to- 
gether talking your poetry and your 
books till I was in such a rage that I 
was fit to strangle you. But you 
were alwa3's a good lad, Harry, and I 
loved you, you know I did. And I 
felt she did n’t belong to mo : and the 
children don’t. And I besotted my- 
self, and gambled and drank, and took 
to all sorts of devilries out of despair 
and fury. And now comes this 
Mohun, and she likes him, I know 
she likes him.” 

“ Indeed, and on my soul, you are 
wrong, sir,” Esmond cried. 

“ She takes letters from him,” cries 
my Lord — “Look here, Harry,’’ 
and he pulled out a paper Avith a 
brown stain of blood upon it. It fell 
from him that day he Avas n’t killed. 
One of the grooms picked it up from 
the ground and gave it me. Here 

it is in their d d comedy jargon. 

‘Divine Gloriana, — Why look so 
coldly on your slave Avho adores you ? 
Have you no compassion on the tor- 
tures you have seen me suffering? 
Do you vouchsafe no reply to billets 
that are written with the blood of my 
heart ? ’ She had more letters from 
him.” 

“But she ansAvered none,” cries 
Esmond. 

“ That ’s not Mohun’s fault,” says 
my Lord, “and I Avill be revenged 
on him, as God ’s in HeaA en, I Avill.” 

“ For a light word or two, Avill you 
risk your Lady’s honor and your 
family’s happiness, my Lord 1 ” Es- 
mond interjiosed beseechingly. 

“ Psha, — there shall be no question 
of my wife’s honor,” said my Lord ; 
“ Ave can quarrel on plenty of grounds 
beside. If I live, that villain Avill be 
punished ; if I fall, my family Avill be 
only the better : there will only be a 
spendthrift the less to keep in the 
Avorld : and Prank has better teach- 
ing than his father. My mind is 
made up, Harry Esmond, and what- 
ever the CA'ent is I am easy about it. 
I leave my Avife and you as guardians 
to the children.” 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


97 


Seeing that my Lord was bent upon 
pursuing this quarrel, and that no en- 
treaties would draw them from it, Har- 
ry Esmond (then of a hotter and more 
impetuous nature than now, when 
care, and reflection, and gray hairs 
have calmed him) thought it was his 
duty to stand by his kind, generous 
patron, and said, “ My Lord, if you 
are determined upon Avar, you must 
not go into it alone. "T is the duty 
of our house to stand by its chief ; and 
I should neither forgive myself nor 
you if you did not call me, or I should 
be absent from you at a moment of 
danger.” 

“ Why, Harry, my poor boy, you 
are bred for a parson,” says my Lord, 
taking Esmond by the hand very 
kindly ; “ and it were a great pity that 
you should meddle in the matter.” 

“ Your Lordship thought of being 
a churchman once,” Harry answered, 
“ and your father’s orders did not pre- 
vent him fighting at Castlewood 
against the Roundheads. Your ene- 
mies are mine, sir ; I can use the foils, 
as you have seen, indifferently well, 
and don’t think I shall be afraid when 
the buttons are taken off ’em.” And 
then Harry explained, Avith some 
blushes and hesitation (for the matter 
Avas delicate, and he feared lest, by 
having put himself forward in the 
quarrel, he might have offended his 
patron), how he had liimself expostu- 
lated Avith the Lord Mohun, and pro- 
posed to measure SAVords Avith him if 
need Avere, and he could not be got to 
withdraAV peaceably in this dispute. 

And I should have beat him, sir,” 
says Harry, laughing. “ He never 
could parry that botte I brought from 
Cambridge. Let us haAm half an 
hour of it, and rehearse, — I can teach 
it your Lordship : ’t is the most deli- 
cate point in the Avorld, and if you 
miss it, your adversary’s SAVord is 
through you.” 

“ By George, Harry, you ought to 
be the head of the house,” says my 
Lord, gloomily. “ You liad been a 
better Lord CastlcAV'Ood than a lazy 
sot like me,” he added, draAving his 
5 


hand across his eyes, and surveying 
his kinsman Avith very kind and affec- 
tionate glances. 

“ Let us take our coats off and haAm 
half an hour’s practice before night- 
fall,” says Harry, after thankfully 
grasping his patron’s manly hand. 

“ You are but a little bit of a lad,” 
says my Lord, good-humoredly; “but, 
in faith, I believe you could do for 
that fellow. No, my boy,” he con- 
tinued, “ I ’ll have none of your 
feints and tricks of stabbing : I can 
use my SAvord pretty Avell, too, and 
will fight my own quarrel my OAvn 
Avay.” 

“ But I shall be by to see fair 
play ? ” cries Harry. 

“ Yes, God bless you, — you shall 
be by.” 

“ When is it, sir ? ” says Harry, for 
he saAv that the matter had been ar- 
ranged privately and beforehand by 
my Lord. 

“ ’T is arranged thus : I sent off a 
courier to Jack Westbury to say that 
I Avanted him specially. He knoAvs 
for Avhat, and Avill be here presently, 
and drink part of that bottle of sack. 
Then Ave shall go to the theatre in 
Duke Street, Avhere Ave shall meet 
Mohun ; and then Ave shall all go sup 
at the ‘ Rose ’ or the ‘ Greyhound.’ 
Then Ave shall call for cards, and 
there will be probably a difference 
over the cards, — and then, God help 
us ! — either a Avicked Aullain and trai- 
tor shall go out of the Avoi'ld, or a 
poor Avorthless devil, that does n’t 
care to remain in it. I am better 
aAvay, Hal, — my Avife Avill be all the 
happier when I am gone,” says my 
Lord, Avith a groan, that tore the 
heart of Harry Esmond, so that ho 
fairly broke into a sob over his pa- 
tron’s kind hand. 

“ The business Avas talked over 
with Mohun before he left home — 
CastleAvood I mean,” — my Lord 
Avent on. “ I took the letter in to 
him, Avhicli I had read, and I cliarged 
him Avith his villany, and he could 
make no denial of it, only he said 
that my wife was innocent.” 

a 


98 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


“ And so slie is ; before Heaven, 
my Lord, she is ! ” cries Harry. 

“ No doubt, no doubt. They al- 
ways are,” says my Lord. “No doubt, 
when she heard he was killed, she 
fainted from accident.” 

“ But, my Lord, my name is Har- 
ry,” cried out Esmond, burning red. 
“ You told my Lady ‘ Harry was 
killed ^ ! ” 

“Damnation! shall I fight you 
too ? ” shouts my Lord, in a fury. 
“ Are you, you little serpent, warmed 
by my fire, going to sting — you? — 
No, my boy, you 're an honest boy ; 
you are a good boy.” (AnO here he 
broke from rage into tears even more 
cruel to see.) “ You arc an honest 
boy, and 1 love you ; and, by Heav- 
ens, I am so Avretched that I don’t 
care what sword it is that ends me. 
Stop, here ’s Jack Westbury. Well, 
Jack ! Welcome, old boy 1 This is 
my kinsman, Harry Esmond.” 

“ Who brought your bowls for you 
at Castlcwood, sir,” says Harry, bow- 
ing ; and the three gentlemen sat 
down and drank of that bottle of 
sack Avhich was prepared for them. 

“ Harry is number three,” says my 
Lord. “ You need n’t be afraid of 
him. Jack.” And the Colonel gave a 
look, as much as to say, “ Indeed, he 
don’t look as if I need.” And then 
my Lord explained Avhat he had only 
told by hints before. When he quar- 
relled with Lord Mohun he was in- 
debted to his Lordship in a sum of 
sixteen hundred pounds, for which 
Lord Mohun said he proposed to wait 
until my Lord Viscount should pay 
him. My Lord had raised the six- 
teen hundred pounds and sent them 
to Lord Mohun that morning, and 
before quitting home had put his af- 
fairs into order, and was now quite 
ready to abide the issue of the quar- 
rel. 

When we had drunk a couple of 
bottles of sack, a coach was called, 
and the three gentlemen went to the 
Duke’s riayhouse, as agreed. The 
play was one of INIr. Wycherley’s, — 
“ Love in a Wood.” • 


Harry Esmond has thought of that 
play ever since with a kind of terror, 
and of Mrs. Bracegirdle, the actiess 
Avho })erforined the girl’s part in the 
comedy. She Avas disguised as a 
page, and came and stood before the 
gentlemen as they sat on the stage, 
and looked OA’er her shoulder Avith a 
pair of arch black eyes, and laughed 
at my Lord, and asked Avhat ailed the 
gentleman from the country, and had 
he had bad ncAvs from Bullock fair? 

BetAveen the acts of the play the 
gentlemen crossed over and conversed 
freely. There Avere tAvo of Lord Mo- 
hun’s party. Captain Macartney, in a 
military habit, and a gentleman in a 
suit of blue A^eh'et and silver in a fiiir 
periAvig, Avith a rich fall of point of 
Venice lace, — my Lord the Earl of 
WarAvick and Holland. My Lord 
had a paper of oranges, AAdiich he ate 
and olfered to the actresses, joking 
Avith them. And Mrs. Bracegirdle, 
Avhen my Lord Mohun said some- 
thing rude, turned on him, and asked 
him Avhat he did there, and Avhether 
he and his friends had come to stab 
anybody else, as they did poor Will 
Mountford? My Lord’s dark face 
greAv darker at this taunt, and Avore a 
mischievous, fatal look. They that 
saw it remembered it, and said so af- 
tertvard. 

When the play Avas ended the tAA'O 
parties joined company ; and my 
Lord CastleAvood then proposed that 
they should go to a tavern and sup. 
Lockit’s, the “ Greyhound,” in Char- 
ing Cross, Avas the house selected. 
All six marched together that Avay'; 
the three lords going ahead. Lord 
Mohun’s captain, and Colonel West- 
bury, and Harry Esmond, Avalkitig 
behind them. As theyAvalkcd, West- 
bury told Harry Esmond about his 
old friend Dick the Scholar, Avho had 
got promotion, and Avas Cornet of the 
Guards, and had Avrote a book called 
the “ Christian Hero,” and had all 
the Guards to laugh at him for his 
pains, for the Christian Hero Avas 
breaking the commandments con- 
stantly, Westbury said, and had fought 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


one or two duels already. And, in a 
lower tone, Westbury besought young 
jVlr. Esmond to take no part in the 
quarrel. “ There Avas no need for 
more seconds than one/' said the 
Colonel, “ and the Captain or Loi’d 
AYarwiek might easily withdraw." 
But Harry said no ; ho Avas bent on 
going through Avith the business. 
Indeed, he had a plan in his head, 
AA'hieh, he thought, might preA^ent my 
Lord Viscount from engaging. 

'riicy Avent in at the bar of the 
taA'crn, and desired a private room 
and wine and cards, and Avhen tlie 
drawer had brought these, they began 
to drink and call healths, and as long 
as the servants Avere in the room ap- 
peared very friendly. 

Harry Esmond’s plan Avas no other 
than to engage in talk Avith Lord 
Mohun, to insult him, and so get 
the first of the quarrel. So Avhen 
cards Avere proposed he offered to 
play. “ Psha ! " says ray Lord Mo- 
han (Avhether Avishing to save Harry, 
or not choosing to try the bolte de Je- 
suite, it is not to be knoAvn ) — “ Young 
gentlemen from college should not 
]/lay these stakes. You are too 
young." 

“ \Vho dares say I am too young ? " 
broke out Harrv. “ Is your Lordship 
afraid ? " 

“ Afraid ! " cries out Mohun. 

But my good Lord Viscount saAV 
the move, — “ Pll play you for ten 
moidorcs, Mohun," says ho. “ You 
silly boy, Ave don’t play for groats 
here as you do at Cambridge." And 
Harry, Avho had no such sum in his 
pocket (for his half-year’s salary Avas 
always pretty Avell sjjent before it Avas 
due), fell back Avith rage and vexa- 
tion in his heart that he had not 
money enough to stake. 

“I’ll stake the young gentleman 
a crown," says the Lord Mohun’s 
captain. 

“ I thought crowns were rather 
scarce with the gentlemen of the 
armv," says Harry. 

“ Do they birch at College ? " says 
the captain. 


. 99 

“ They birch fools," says Harry, 
“and they cane bullies, and they ding 
puppies into the Avater." 

“Eaith, then, there’s some escapes 
droAvning," says the Captain, Avho 
Avas an Irishman ; and all the gentle- 
men began to laugh, and made poor 
Harry only more angry. 

My Lord Mohun presently snuffed 
a candle. It Avas Avhen the draAA'ers 
brought in fresh bottles and glasses 
and Averc in the room, — on which 
my Loi’d Viscount said, — “ The 
deuce take you, Mohun, Iioav damned 
aAvkAvard you are. Light the candle, 
you draAver." 

“ Damned aAvkAvard is a damned 
aAvlcAvard expression, iny Lord," says 
the other. “ ToAvn gentlemen don’t 
use such Avords, — or ask pardon if 
they do." 

“ I ’m a country gentleman," says 
my Lord Viscount. 

“ I see it by your manner,” says 
my Lord Mohun. “No man shall 
say damned aivkAvard to me." 

“ I fling the AVords in your face, my 
Lord," says the other ; “ shall I seni 
the cards, too ? " 

“ Gentlemen, gentlemen ! before 
the servants ? " cry out Colonel AVest- 
biiry and my Lord AVai'Avick in a 
breath. The draAvers go out of the 
room hastily. They tell the people 
beloAV of the quarrel up stairs. 

“ Enough has been said," says 
Colonel Westbury. “AVill your 
Lordships meet to-morroAv morning? " 

“ AVill my Lord CastlcAvood with- 
draAV his words?" asks the Earl of 
AVanvick. 

“ My Lord Castleivood Avill be 

first,” says Colonel AVestbury. 

“ Then we haA’^e nothing for it. 
Take notice, gentlemen, there haA-^e 
been outrageous Avords, — reparation 
asked and refused." 

“And refused," says my Lord 
CastlcAvood, putting on his hat. — 
“ Where shall the meeting be ? and 
when ? " 

“ Since my Lord refuses me satis- 
faction, Avhicii I deeply regret, there 
is no time so good as uoav," says my 


100 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


Lord Mohnn. “Let us have chairs 
and to Leicester Field." 

‘‘ Are your Lordship and I to have 
the lionor of exchanging a pass or 
two?" says Colonel Westbury, with 
a low how to my Lord of Warwick 
and Holland. 

“ It is an honor for me," says my 
Lord, Avith a profound congee, “ to be 
matched with a gentleman who has 
been at Mons and Namur." 

“ Will your Keverence permit me 
to give you a lesson ? " says the Cap- 
tain. 

“ Nay, nay, gentlemen, two on a 
side are j)lenty," says Harry’s patron. 
“ Spare the boy. Captain Macartney," 
and he shook Harry’s hand, — lor 
the last lime, save one, in his life. 

At the bar of the tavern all the 
gentlemen stopped, and my Lord 
Viscount said, laughing, to the bar- 
woman, that those cards set people 
sadly a-quarrelling ; but that the 
dispute was over now, and the parties 
were all going away to my Lord 
Mohun’s house, in How Street, to 
drink a bottle more before going to 
bed. 

A half-dozen of chairs were now 
called, and the six gentlemen stepping 
into them, the word was privately 
given to the chairmen to go to 
Leicester Field, where the gentle- 
men were set down opposite the 
“ Standard Tavern." It was mid- 
night, and the town was abed by this 
time, and only a few lights in the 
windows of the houses ; but the 
night was bright enough for the 
unhappy purpose which the dispu- 
tants came about ; and so all six 
entered into that fatal square, the 
chairmen standing without the railing 
and keeping the gate, lest any persons 
should disturb the meeting. 

All that happened there hath been 
matter of public notoriety, and is 
recorded, for warning to lawless men, 
in the annals of our country. After 
being engaged for not more than a 
couple of minutes, as Harry Esmond 
thought (though being occupied at 
the time with his own adversary’s 


point, which was active, he may not 
have taken a good note of time), a 
cry from the chairmen withotit, who 
were smoking their pipes, and leaning 
over the railings of the field as they 
watched the dim combat within, 
announced that some catastrophe hatl 
happened, Avhicb caused Esmond to 
drop his sword and look round, at 
which moment his enemy wounded 
him in the right hand. But the 
young man did not heed this hurt 
much, and ran up to the place where 
he saw' his dear master was down. 

My Lord Mohun was standing over 
him. 

“ Arc you much hurt, Frank ? " he 
asked in a hollow voice. 

“ I believe 1 ’m a dead man," my 
Lord said from the ground. 

“ No. no, not so," says the other; 
“ and I call God to witness, Frank 
Esmond, that I would have asked 
your pardon, had you but given me a 
chance. In — in the first cause of 
our falling out, I swear that no one 
was to l)lame but me, and — and that 
my Lady — " 

“ Hush ! " says my poor Lord Vis- 
count, lifting himself on his elbow 
and speaking faintly. “ ’T was a 
dispute about the cards, — the cursed 
cards. Harry my boy, arc you 
wounded too I God lielp thee ! I 
loved thee, Harry, and thou must 
watch over my little Frank, — and — 
and canw this little heart to my 
wife." 

And h.crc my dear lord felt in his 
breast for a locket he w'ore there, and, 
in the act, fell back fainting. 

AVc were all at this terrified, think- 
ing him dead ; but Esmond and 
Colonel Westbury bade the chairmen 
come into the field ; and so my Lord 
was carried to one Mr. Aimes, a 
surgeon, in Long Acre, who kept a 
bath, and there the house was wak- 
ened up, and the victim of this quar- 
rel carried in. 

My Lord Viscount was put to bed, 
and his wound looked to by the sur- 
geon, who seemed both kind and 
skilful. When he had looked to my 


I'he Duel in Leicester Field, 


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THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 101 


Lord, he hand<a^ed up Harry Es- 
mond’ j hand (who, from loss of 
blood, had fainted too, in the house, 
and may have been some time 
unconscious) ; and when the young- 
man came to himself, you may be 
sure he eagerly asked what news there 
were of his dear patron ; on which the 
surgeon carried him to the room 
where the Lord Castlewood lay ; who 
h-ad already sent for a priest ; and 
desired earnestly, they said, to speak 
with his kinsman. He was lying on 
a bed, very pale and ghastly, with 
tliat fixed, fatal look in his eyes, 
wliich betokens death ; and faintly 
beckoning all the other persons away 
from him with his h ind, and crying 
out “Only Harry Esmond,” the hand 
fell powerless down on the coverlet, 
as Harry came forward, and knelt 
down and kissed it. 

“ Thou art all but a priest, Harry,” 
my Lord Viscount gasped out, with a 
faint smile, and pressure of his cold 
hand. “ Are they all gone ^ Let me 
make thee a death-bed confession.” 

And with sacred Death waiting, as 
it were, at the bed-foot, as an awful 
witness of his words, the poor dying 
soul gasped out his last Avishes in 
respect of his family; — his humble 
profession of contrition for his faults ; 
— and his charity toAvards the Avorld 
he Avas leaving. Some things he said 
concerned Harry Esmond as much as 
they astonished him. And my Lord 
Viscount, sinking visibly, Avas in the 
midst of these strange confessions, 
when the ecclesiastic for Avhora my 
Lord had sent, Mr. Atterbury, 
arriAmd. 

This gentleman had reached to no 
great church dignity as yet, but was 
only preacher at St. Bride’s, draAving 
all the town thither by his eloquent 
sermons. He Avas godson to my 
Lord, Avho had been pupil to his 
father ; had paid a visit to Castle- 
Avood from Oxford more than once; 
and it Avas by his advice, I think, that 
Harry Esmond Avas sent to Cam- 
bridge, rather than to Oxford, of 
which place Mr. Atterbury, though 


a distinguished member, spoke but 
ill. 

Our messenger found the good 
priest ali'cady at his books at five 
o’clock in the morning, and he 
followed the man eagerly to the 
house Avhere my poor Lord Viscount 
lay, — Esmond Avatching him, and 
taking his dying Avords from his 
mouth. 

My Lord, hearing of Mr. Atter- 
bury’s arriAM, and squeezing Es- 
mond’s hand, asked to be alone Avith 
the priest ; and Esmond left them 
there for this solemn intervieiv. You 
may be sure that his OAvn prayers and 
grief accompanied that dying bene- 
factor. My Lord had said to him 
that Avbich confounded the young 
man, — informed him of a secret 
Avhich greatly concerned him. In- 
deed, after hearing it, he had had good 
cause for doubt and dismay ; for men- 
tal anguish as well as resolution. 
While the colloquy between Mr. 
Atterbury and his dying penitent 
took place Avithin, an immense con- 
test of perplexity Avas agitating Lord 
CastleAvood’s young companion. 

At the end of an Jiour, — it may 
be more, — Mr. Atterbury came out 
of the room, locking A^ery hard at 
Esmond, and holding a paper. 

“ He is on the brink of God’s aAATul 
judgment,” the priest Avhispered. 
“ He has made his breast clean to 
me. He forgives and belieAXS, and 
makes restitution. Shall it be in 
public ? Shall avc call a Avitness to 
sign it ? ” 

“ God knoAvs,” sobbed out the 
young man, “ my dearest Lord has 
only done me kindness all his life.” 

The priest jjut the paper into Es- 
mond’s hand. He looked at it. It 
SAvam before his eyes. 

“ ’Tis a confession,” he said. 

“ ’T is as you please,” said Mr. 
Atterbury. 

There Avas a fire in the room, Avhere 
the clothes Avere drying for the baths, 
and there lay a heap in a corner, 
saturated Avith the blood of my dear 
Lord’s body. Esmond Avent to the 


102 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


fire, and threw the paper into it. 
'T was a great chimney with glazed 
Dutch tiles. How we remember such 
trilles in such awful moments ! — the 
scrap of the hook that we have read 
in a great grief. — the taste of that 
last dish that we have eaten before a 
duel, or some such supreme meeting 
or parting. On the Dutch tiles at 
the Bagnio was a rude picture repre- 
senting Jacob in hairy gloves, cheat- 
ing Isaac of Esau’s birthright. The 
burning paper lighted it up. 

“ ’T is only a confession, Mr. 
Atterbury,” said the young man. 
He leaned his head against the 
mantel-piece : a burst of tears came to 
his eyes. They were the first he had j 
shed as he sat by his lord, scared by 
this calamity, and more yet by what 
the poor dying gentleman had told 
him, and shocked to think that he 
should bo the agent of bringing this 
double misfortune on those he loved 
best. 

“ Let us go to him,” said Mr. Es- 
mond. And accordingly they went 
into the next chamber, where by this 
time, the dawn had broke, which 
showed my Lord’s poor pale face and 
wild appealing eyes, that wore that 
awful fatal look of coming dissolu- 
tion. The surgeon was with him. 
He went into the chamber as Atter- 
bury came out thence. IMy Lord 
Viscount turned round his sick eyes 


towards Esmond. It choked the oth- 
er to hear that rattle in his throat. 

“ My Lord Viscount,” says Mr. 
Atterbury, “ Mr. Esmond wants no 
witnesses, and hath burned the ija- 
pcr.” 

“ My dearest master ! ” Esmond 
said, kneeling down, and taking his 
hand and kissing it. 

My Lord Viscount sprang up in 
his bed, and flung his arms round 
Esmond. “ God bl — bless — ” 
was all he said. The blood rushed 
from his mouth, deluging the young 
man. My dearest lord was no more. 
He was gone with a blessing on his 
lips, and love and repentance and 
j kindness in his manly heart. 

“ Beyjcdicti henedicentes,” says Mr. 
Atterbury, and the young man, kneel- 
ing at the bedside, groaned out an 
“Amen.” 

“ AVho shall take the news to her 1 ” 
was Mr. Esmond’s next thought. 
And on this he besought Mr. Atter- 
bury to bear the tidings to Castlewood. 
He could not face his mistress him- 
self with those dreadful news. JMr. 
Atterbury complying kindly, Es- 
mond writ a hasty note on his table- 
book to my Lord’s man, bidding him 
get the horses for Mr. Atterbury, and 
ride with him, and send Esmond’s 
own valise to the Gatehouse prison, 
whither he resolved to go and give 
himself up. 


BOOK II. 

CONTAINS MR. ESMOND’S MILITARY LIFE, AND OTHER MATTERS APPER- 


TAINING TO THE 
CHAPTER 1. 

I AM IN PRISON, AND VISITED, BUT 
NOT CONSOLED THERE. 

Those may imagine, who have 
seen death untimely strike down per- 
sons revered and beloved, and know 


ESMOND FAMILY. 

how unavailing consolation is, what 
was Harry Esmond’s anguish after 
being an actor in that ghastly mid- 
night scene of blood and homicide. 
He could not, he felt, have faced his 
dear mistress, and told her that story. 
He was thankful that kind Atterbury 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


103 


consented to break the sad news to 
her ; but, besides his grief, which he 
took into prison with him, lie had 
that in his heart which secretly cheered 
and consoled him. 

A great secret had been told to Es- 
mond by his unhappy stricken kins- 
man, lying on his death-bed. Were 
he to disclose it, as in equity and 
honor he might do, the discovery 
would but bring greater grief upon 
those Avhom he loved best in the 
world, and who were sad enough al- 
ready. Should he bring down shame 
and perplexity upon all those beings 
to Avhom he was attached by so many 
tender ties of affection and gratitude 1 
degrade his father’s widow ? impeach 
and sully his father’s and kinsman’s 
honor 1 and for what '? for a barren 
title, to be worn at the expense of an 
innocent boy, the son of his dearest 
benefactress. He had debated this 
matter in his conscience, whilst his 
poor Lord was making his dying 
confession. On one side were ambi- 
tion, temptation, justice even ; but 
love, gratitude, and fidelity, pleaded 
on the other. And when the struggle 
was over in Harry’s mind, a glow of 
righteous happiness filled it ; and it 
was Avith grateful tears in his eyes 
that he retxArned thanks to God for 
that decision which he had been en- 
abled to make. 

“ When I Avas denied by my OAvn 
blood,” thought he, “ these dearest 
friends receiA'cd 'and cherished me. 
AVhen I Avas a nameless orphan my- 
self, and needed a protector, I found 
one in yonder kind soul, avIio has 
gone to his account repenting of the 
innocent Avrong he has done.” 

And Avith this consoling thought 
he Avent aAvay to give himself up at 
the prison, after kissing the cold lips 
of his benefactor. 

It Avas on the third day after he 
had come to the Gatehouse prison 
(Avhere he lay in no small pain from 
his AAmund, Avhich inflamed and ached 
severely), and Avith those thoughts 
and resolutions that have been just 
spoke of, to depress, and yet to console 


him, that H. Esmond’s keeper came 
and told him that a visitor Avas ask- 
ing for him, and though he could not 
see her face, Avhich Avas enveloped in 
a black hood, her AAdiole figure, too, 
being veiled and covered Avith the 
deepest mourning, Esmond kncAv at 
once that his visitor Avas his dear 
mistress. 

He got up from his bed, AAdiere he 
AA^as lying, being very weak ; and ad- 
vancing towards her as the retiring 
keeper shut the door upon him and 
his guest in that sad place, he put for- 
Avard his left hand (for the right 
Avas Avounded and bandaged), and he 
would have taken that kiml one of 
his mistress, Avhich had done so many 
offices of friendship for him for so 
many years. 

But the Lady CastleAA'ood Aventback 
from him, putting back her hood, and 
leaning against the great stanchioned 
door which the jailer had just closed 
upon them. Her face was ghastly 
Avhite, as Esmond saAV it, looking from 
the hood ; and her eyes, ordinarily so 
SAveet and tender, Avere fixed at him 
Avith such a tragic glance of Avoe and 
anger, as caused the young man, un- 
accustomed to unkindness from that 
person, to avert his OAvn glances from 
her face. 

“ And this, Mr. Esmond,” she said, 
“ is Avhere I see you ; and ’t is to this 
you have brought me ! ” 

“ Y'ou have come to console me 
in my calamity, madam,” said he 
(though, in truth, he scai’ce kncAv hoAV 
to address her, his emotions at behold- 
ing her so OA^erpoAvered him). 

She advanced a little, but stood 
silent and trembling, looking out at 
him from her black draperies, Avith 
her small Avhitc hands clasped to- 
gether, and quivering lips and holloAV 
eyes. 

“ Not to reproach me,” he continued 
after a pause. “ My grief is sufficient 
as it is.” 

“Take hack your hand, — do not 
touch me Avith it f ” she cried. “ Look ! 
there ’s blood on it ! ” 

“ I Avish they had taken it all/ 


104 


THE HISTOKY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


said Esmond ; “ if you are unkind to 
me.” 

“ Where is my husband ? ” she 
broke out. “ Give me buck my bus- 
band, Henry 1 Wliy did you stand 
by at midnight and see him mur- 
dered ? Wliy did the traitor escape 
Avho did it 1 You, the champion of 
your house, who offered to die for us ! 
You that he loved and trusted, and 
to whom I confided him, — you that 
vowed devotion and gratitude, and I 
believed you, — yes I believed you, — 
why are you here, and my noble 
Francis gone'? Why did you come 
among us ? You have only brought 
MS grief and sorrow ; and repentance, 
bitter, bitter repentance, as a return for 
our love and kindness. Did I ever do 
you a wrong, Henry ? You were but 
an orphan child when I first saw you, 
— when he first saw you, who was so 
good, and noble, and trusting. He 
would have had you sent away, but, 
like a foolish woman, I besought him 
to let you stay. And you pretended 
to love us, and we believed you, — 
and you made our house wretched, 
and my husband’s heart went from 
me : and I lost him through you, — I 
lost him — the husband of my youth, 
I say. I worshipped him : you know 
I worshipped him, — and he was 
changed to me. He was no more 
my Francis of old, — my dear, dear 
soldier. He loved me before he saw 
you ; and I loved him. O, God is 
my witness how I loved him ! Why 
did he not send you from among us ? 

was only his kindness, that could 
refuse me nothing then. And, young 
as you were, — yes, and weak and 
alone, — there was evil, I knew there 
was evil in keeping you. I read it 
in your face and eyes. I saAV that 
they boded harm to us, — and it came, 
I knew it -would. Why did you not 
die when you had the small-pox, — 
and I came myself and Avatched you, 
and you did n’t know me in your de- 
lirium, — and you called out for me, 
though I was there at your side ? 
All that has happened since, Avas a 
just judgment on my Avicked heart 


— my Avicked jealous heart. 0, 1 am 
punished — aAvfully punished ! My 
husband lies in his blood, — murdered 
for defending me, my kind, kind, gen- 
erous lord, — and you Avere by, and 
you let him die, Henry ! ” 

These Avords, uttered in the Avild- 
ness of her grief, by one Avho Avas or- 
dinarily quiet, and spoke seldom ex- 
cept Avith a gentle smile and a sooth- 
ing tone, rung in Esmond’s ear ; and 
’t is said that he repeated many of 
them in the fever into Avhich he noAV 
fell from hisAvound, and perhaps from 
the emotion which such passionate, 
undeserved upbraidings caused him. 
It seemed as if his A'ery sacrifices and 
loA^e for this lady and her family Avere 
to turn to evil and reproach : as if 
his presence amongst them AA’as in- 
deed a cause of grief, and the contin- 
uance of his life but avoc and bitter- 
ness to theirs. As the Lady Castle- 
wood spoke bitterly, rapidly, Avithout 
a tear, he never offered a Avord of ap- 
peal or remonstrance : but sat at the 
foot of his prison-bed, stricken only 
with the more pain at thinking it Avas 
that soft and beloA'cd hand Avhich 
should stab him so cruelly, and poAv- 
erless against her fatal sorroAV. Her 
words as she spoke struck the cliords 
of all his memory, and the Avhole of 
his boyhood and youth passed Avithin 
him ; Avhilst his lady, so fond and 
gentle but yesterday, — this good an- 
gel Avhom he had loved and Avor- 
shipped, — stood before him, pursu- 
ing him Avith keen Avords and aspect 
malign. 

“ 1 Avish I were in my Lord’s place,” 
he groaned out. “ It Avas not my 
fault that I Avas not there, madam. 
But Fate is stronger than all of us, 
and Avilled Avhat has come to pass. 
It had been better for me to have died 
Avhen I had the illness.” 

“ Yes, Henry,” said she, — and as 
she spoke she looked at him Avith a 
glance that Avas at once so fond and 
so sad, that the young man, tossing 
up his arms, Avildly fell back, hiding 
his head in the coverlet of the bed. 
As he turned he struck against the 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


105 


wall with his wounded hand, dis- 
placing the ligature ; and lie felt the 
blood rushing again from the wound, 
lie remembered feeling a secret pleas- 
ure at the accident, — and thinking, 
“ Suppose I were to end now, who 
would grieve for me ” 

Tliis hemorrhage, or the grief and 
despair in which the luckless young 
man was at the time of tlie accident, 
must have brought on a deliquium 
presently; for he had scarce any 
recollection afterwards, save of some 
one, his mistress probably, seizing his 
hand, — and then of the buzzing 
noise in his ears as he awoke, with 
two or three persons of the prison 
around his bed, Avhereon he lay in a 
pool of blood from his arm. 

It was - now bandaged up again by 
the prison surgeon, avIio happened to 
be in the place; and the governor’s 
wife and servant, kind people both, 
were with the patient. Esmond saw 
his mistress still in the room when 
he awoke from his trance ; but she 
went away without a word; though 
the governor’s wife told him that she 
sat in her room for some time after- 
ward, and did not leave the prison 
until she heard that Esmond was 
likely to do well. 

Days afterwards, when Esmond 
was brought out of a fever which he 
had, and which attacked him that 
night pretty sharply, the honest 
keeper’s wife brought her patient a 
handkerchief fresh washed and ironed, 
and at ’the corner of which he recog- 
nized his mistress’s well-known cipher 
and viscountess’s crown. “ The lady 
had bound it round his arm when he 
fainted, and before she called for 
help,” the keeper’s wife said. “Poor 
lady! she took on saiily about her 
husband. He has been buried to-day, 
and a many of the coaches of the no- 
bility went with him, — my Lord 
Marlborough’s and my Lord Sunder- 
land’s, and many officers of tlie 
Graards, in Avhich he served in the 
old king’s time ; and mv Lady has 
been with her two children to the 
lung at Kensington, and asked for 


justice against my Lord Mohun, who 
is in hiding, and my Lord the Earl 
of Warwick and Holland, who is 
ready to give himself up and take his 
trial.” 

Such were the news, coupled with 
assertions about her own honesty and 
that of Molly her maid, who would 
never have stolen a certain trumpery 
gold sleeve-button of Mr. Esmond’s 
that was missing after his fainting fit, 
that the keeper’s wife brought to her 
lodger. His thoughts followed to 
that untimely grave, the brave heart, 
the kind friend, the gallant gentleman, 
honest of word and generous of 
thought, (if feeble of purpose, but are 
his betters much stronger than he ? ) 
who had given him bread and shelter 
when he had none ; home and love 
when he needed them ; and who, if he 
had kept one vital secret from him, 
had done that of which he repented 
ere dying, — a wrong indeed, but one 
followed by remorse, and occasioned 
by almost irresistible temptation. 

Esmond took his handkerchief 
when his nurse left him, and very 
likely kissed it, and looked at the 
bauble embroidered in the corner. 
“ It has cost thee grief engugh,” ho 
thought, “ dear lady, so loving and so 
tender. Shall I take it from thee 
and thy children ? No, never ! Keep 
it, and wear it, my little Frank, my 
pretty boy. If I cannot make a name 
for myself, I can die without one. 
Some day, when my dear mistress 
secs my heart, I shall be righted ; or 
if not here or now, why, elsewhere ; 
where Honor doth not follow us, but 
where Love reigns perpetual.” 

’T is needless to relate here, as the 
reports of the lawyers already have 
chronicled them, the particulars or 
issue of that trial which ensued upon 
my Lord Castlewood’s melanclioly 
homicide. Of the two lords engaged 
ill that sad matter, the second, my 
Lord the Earl of Warwick and Hol- 
land, who had been engaged with 
Colonel Westbury, and wounded by 
him, was found not guilty by his 
peers, before whom he was tried 


106 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


(under the presidence of the Lord 
ISteward, Lord Somers) ; and the 
principal, the Lord Mohun, being 
tbuiid guilty of the manslaughter 
(which, indeed, was forced upon him, 
and of which he repented most sin- 
cerely), pleaded his clergy, and so 
was discharged without any penalty. 
The widow of the slain nobleman, as 
it was told us in prison, showed an 
extraordinary spirit ; and, though she 
had to wait for ten years before her son 
was old enough to compass it, de- 
clared she would have revenge of her 
husband’s murderer. So much and 
suddenly had grief, anger, and mis- 
fortune appeared to change her. 
Ihit fortune, good or ill, as I take it, 
does not change men and women. 
It but develops their characters. 
As there are a iliousand thoughts 
lying Avithin a man tiiat he docs not ; 
know till he takes up the pen to ! 
Avrite, so the heart is a secret even to 
him (or her) Avho has it in his OAvn 1 
breast. Who hath not found himself^ 
surprised into revenge, or action, or . 
])as.sion, for good or evil, Avhereof^ 
the seeds lay within him, latent and 
unsuspected, until the occasion called 
them forth 1 With the death of her 
lord, a change seemed to come OAcr 
the Avhole conduct and mind of Lady 
CastlcAvood ; but of this Ave shall 
speak in the riglit season and anon. 

The lords being tried then before 
their peers at Westminster, according 
to their priA'ilege, being brought from 
the ToAver Avith state processions and 
barges, and accompanied by lieuten- 
ants and axe-men, the commoners 
engaged in that melancholy fray took 
their trial at NcAA'gatc, as became 
them ; and, being all found guilty, 
pleaded likcAA'ise their benefit of clergy; 
The sentence, as aa'c all know in these 
cases, is, that the culprit lies a year 
in prison, or during the King’s 
jdcasure, and is burned in the hand, 
or only stamped with a cold iron ; or 
this part oi the punishment is alto- 
gether remitted at the grace of the 
Sovereign. So Harry Esmond found 
himself a criminal and a prisoner at 


tAvo-and-tAAxnty years old ; as for the 
tAvo colonels, his comrades, they took 
the matter very lightly, duelling 
Avas a part of their business ; and they 
could not in honor refuse any invita- 
tions of that sort. 

But the case AAms different with Mr. 
Esmond. His life Avas changed by 
that stroke of the sAvord Avhich de- 
stroyed his kind patron’s. As he lay 
in prison, old Dr. Tusher fell ill and 
died ; and Lady CastlcAvood appointed 
Thomas Tusher to the vacant living; 
about the filling of Avhich she had a 
thousand times fondly talked to Harry 
Esmond : hoAv they never should 
part ; hoAV he should educate her boy ; 
hoAV to be a country clergyman, ifke 
saintly George Herbert or pious Dr. 
Ken, Avas the happiest and greatest 
lot in life ; hoAv (if he Avere obstinately 
bent on it, though, for her part, she 
OAvned rather to holding Queen Bess’s 
opinion, that a bishop should haAx no 
AA'il'e, and if not a bishop Avhy a clergy- 
man '?) slie Avould find a good Avife for 
Harry Esmond : and so on, Aviih a 
hundred I'letty prospects told by fire- 
side evenings, in fond prattle, as the 
children played about the hall. All 
these plans Avere overthroAvn noAv. 
Thomas Tusher Avrote to Esmond, as 
he lay in ])rison, announcing that his 
]iatroncss had eonfened upon him the 
living his reA'crend father had held for 
many years : that she never, after the 
tragical events Avhieh had occurred 
(Avliereof Tom spoke Avith a very edi- 
fying horror), could see in the revered 
Tusher’s pulpit, or at her son’s table, 
the man Avho Avas ansAvcrable for the 
father’s life ; that her Lad a ship bade 
him to say that she prayed lor her 
kinsman’s repentance and his AAorldly 
happiness ; that he Avas free to com- 
mand her aid for any scheme of life 
Avhich he might propose to himself; 
but that on this side of the grave she 
Avould see him no more. And Tusher, 
for his OAvn part, added that Harry 
should have his jirayers as a friend of 
his youth, and commended him Avliilst 
he Avas in ]wison to read certain Avorks 
of theology, Avhich his Reverence pro- 


THE HISTORY .OF HENRY ESMOND. 


107 


nonncccl to be vciy wholesome for 
sinners in liis lamentable eondition. 

And this was the return for a life 
of devmtion, — this the end of years 
of affectionate intercourse and passion- 
ate fidelity ! Harry would have died 
for his patron, and was held as little 
better than his murderer : he had 
sacrificed, she did not know how 
much, for his mistress, and she threw 
him aside ; he h id endowed her family 
with all they had, and she talked about 
piviu" him alms as to a menial ! The 
g-rief for his patron’s loss : the pains 
of his own present position, and doubts 
as to the future : all these were for- 
gotten under the sense of the consum- 
mate outrage which he had to endure, 
and overpowered by the superior pang 
of that torture. 

He writ back a letter to Mr. Tusher 
from his prison, congratulating his 
Reverence upon his appointment to 
the living of Castlewood : sarcasti- 
cally bidding him to follow in the foot- 
steps of his admirable father, whose 
gown had descended upon him ; 
thanking her Ladyship for her offer 
of alms, which he said he should trust 
not to need ; and beseeching her to 
remember that, if ever her determina- 
tion should change towards him, he 
would be ready to give her proofs of 
a fidelity which had never wavered, 
and which ought never to have been 
questioned by that house. “ And if 
we meet no more, or only as strangers 
in this world,” Mr. Esmond conclud- 
ed, “ a sentence against the cruelty 
and injustice of which I disdain to 
appeal ; hereafter she will know who 
was faithful to her, and Avhether she 
had any cause to suspect the love and 
devotion of her kinsman and ser- 
vant.” 

After the sending of this letter, the 
poor young fellow’s mind was more at 
ease than it had been previously. 
The blow had been struck, and he 
had borne it. His cruel goddess had 
shaken her Avings and fled : and left 
him alone and friendless, but virtute 
sua. And he had to bear him up, at 
once the sense of his right and the 


feeling of his wrongs, his honor and 
his misfortune. As I have seen men 
Aval king and running to arms at a 
sudden trumpet, before emergency a 
manly heart leaps up resolute ; 
meets the threatening danger with un- 
daunted countenance ; and, Avhether 
compiered or conquering, fiices it al- 
ways. Ah ! no man knows his 
strength or his Aveakness, till occasion 
proves them. If there be some 
thoughts and actions of his life from 
the memory of Avhich a man shrinks 
Avitli shame, sure there are some which 
he may be proud to own and remem- 
ber ; forgiven injuries, conquered 
temptations (now and then) and 
difficulties vanquished by endurance. 

It was these thoughts regarding 
the living, far more than any great 
poignancy of grief respecting the 
dead, Avhich affected Harry Esmond 
Avhilst in prison after his trial : but it 
may be imaginctl that he could take 
no comrade of misfortune into the 
confidence of his feelings, and they 
thought it Avas remorse and sorroAV 
for his patron’s loss Avhich affected the 
young man, in error of which opinion 
he chose to leave them. As a com- 
panion he Avas so moody and silent 
that the tAvo officers, his felloAv-suffer- 
ers, left him to himself mostly, liked 
little very likely Avhat they kneiv of 
him, consoled ihemselves Avith dice, 
cards, and the bottle, and Avhiled 
away their OAvn captivity in their own 
Avay. It seemed to Esmond as if he 
liA^ed years in that prison : and Avas 
changed and aged Avhen he came out 
of it. At certain periods of life Ave 
live years of emotion in a few Avecks, 
— and look back on those times, as 
on great gaps between the old life and 
the neAA". You do not knoAV how 
much you suffer in those critical mal- 
adies of the heart, until the disease is 
over and you look back on, it aftcr- 
AAmrds. During the time, the suffer- 
ing is at least sufferable. The day 
jiasses in more or less of pain, and 
the night Avears away somehow. ’T is 
only in after days that Ave see Avhat 
the danger has been, — as a man out 


108 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


a hunting or riding for his life looks 
at a leap, and wonders how he should 
have survived the taking of it. O 
dark months of grief and rage ! of 
wrong and cruel endurance ! He is 
old now wlio recalls you. Long ago 
he has forgiven and blest tlie soft 
hand that wounded him : hut the 
mark is there, and the wound is cica- 
trized only, — no time, tears, caresses, 
or repentance can obliterate the scar. 
We arc indocile to put uj) with grief, 
however. Rejicimus rates quassas : avc 
tempt the ocean again and again, and 
try upon new ventures. Esmond 
thought of his early time as a noviti- 
ate, and of this past trial as an 
initiation before entering into life, — 
as our young Indians undergo tor- 
tures silently before they pass to the 
rank of warriors in the tribe. 

The officers, meanwhile, who were 
not let into the secret of the grief 
which was gnawing at the side of 
their silent young friend, and being 
accustomed to such transactions, in 
which one comrade or another was 
daily paying the forfeit of the sword, 
did not, "of course, bemoan themselves 
very inconsolably about the fate of 
their late companion in arms. This 
one told stories of former adventures 
of love, or war, or pleasure, in which 
poor Frank Esmond had been engag- 
ed ; t’other recollected how a consta- 
ble had been bilked, or a tavern-bully 
beaten : whilst my Lord’s poor widow 
was sitting at his tomb worshipping 
him as an actual saint and spotless 
hero, — so the visitors said who had 
news of Lady Castlewood ; and West- 
bnry and Macartney had ])retty nearly 
had all the towm to come and see 
them. 

’file duel, its fatal termination, the 
trial of the two peers and the three 
commoners concerned, had caused the 
greatest excitement in the town. 
The prints and News Letters were 
full of them. The three gentlemen 
in Newgate were almost as much 
crowded as the bishops in the Tower, 
or a highwayman before execution. 
AVe were allotved to live in the Gov- 


ernor’s house, as hath been said, both 
b(‘fore trial and after condemnation, 
waiting the King’s pleasure ; nor was 
the real cause of the fatal quarrel 
known, so closely had my Lord and 
the two other persons who knew it 
kept the secret, but every one imagin- 
ed that the origin of the meeting was 
a gambling dispute. Except fresh 
air, the prisoners had, upon payment, 
most things they eould desire. In- 
terest was made that they should not 
mix with the vulgar eonvicts, whose 
ribald choruses and loud laughter and 
ennses could be heard from their own 
part of the prison, where they and the 
miserable debtors were confined pell- 
mell. 

— • — 

CHAPTER 11. 

I COME TO THE EXD OF MY CAPTIV- 
ITY, BUT NOT OF MY TROUBLE. 

Among the company which came 
to visit the two cfficcrs was an old ac- 
quaintance of Harry Esmond; that 
gentleman of the Gmirds, namely, 
who had been so kind to Harry when 
Captain Westbury’s troop had I cen 
quartered at Castlewood more than 
seven years before. Dick the Scholar 
was no longer Dick the Trooper now, 
but Ca])tain Steele of Lucas’s Eusi- 
leers, and i-ccrctary to my Lord Cutts, 
that famous officer of King 'William’s, 
the bravest and most lx loved man of 
the English army. The two jolly 
])risoners had been drinking with a 
])arty of friends (for our cellar and 
that of tbe keepers of Newgate, too, 
were supplied with endless hampers 
of Burgtindy and Champagne that 
the friends of the Colonels sent in) ; 
and Harry, having no wish for their 
drink or their conversation, being too 
feeble in health for the one and too 
sad in spirits for the other, was sitting 
a})!irt in his little room, reading such 
books as he had, one evening, when 
honest Colonel Westbury, flushed 
with liquor, and always good-humored 
in and out of his cups, came laugbing 
into Harry’s closet and said, “ Ho, 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


109 


young Killjoy ! here ’s a friend como 
to see thee ; ho ’ll pray with thee, or 
he ’ll drink with thee ; or he ’ll drink 
and pray turn about. Dick, my 
Christian hero, here ’s the little 
scholar of Castle wood.” 

Dick came up and kissed Esmond 
on botli cheeks, imparting a strong 
perfume of burnt sack along with his 
caress to the young man. 

“ What ! is this the little man that 
used to talk Latin and fetch our 
bowls ? How tall thou art grown ! 
I protest I should have known thee 
anywhere. And so you have turned 
ruffian and figliter ; and wanted to 
measure swords with Mohun, did 
you ? I protest that Mohun said at 
the Guard dinner yesterday, where 
there was a pretty company of us, 
that the young fellow wanted to fight 
him, and was the better man of the 
two.” 

“ I wish Ave could liaA^e tried and 
proved it, Mr. Steele,” says Esmond, 
thinking of his dead benefactor, and 
his eyes filling with tears. 

With the exception of that one 
cruel letter Avhich he bad from his 
mistress, Mr. Esmond heard nothing 
from her, and she seemed determined, 
to execute her resolve of parting from 
him and disowning him. But he bad 
news of her, such as it was, which 
Mr. Steele assiduously brouglit him 
from the Prince’s and Princesses’ 
Court, where our honest Captain had 
been advanced to the post of gentle- 
man waiter. When off duty there. 
Captain Dick often came to console 
his friends in captivity ; a good nature 
and a friendly disposition towards all 
who Avere in ill fortune no doubt 
prompting him to make his visits, and* 
goo.l-tcllo'vship and good Avinc to pro- 
long them. 

“ Faith,” says Westbury, “ the 
little scholar Avas the first to begin 
the quarrel — I mind me of it now — 
at Lockit’s. I always hated that 
fellow Mohun. Wlnit Avas the real 
cause of the quarrel bctAvixt him and 
poor Frank ? I would wager ’t was 
a woman.” 


“ ’T Avas a quarrel about play, — on 
my Avord, about play,’' Harry said. 
” My poor Lord lost great sums to his 
guest at CastleAvood. Angry Avords 
passed between them ; and, though 
Lord CastlcAA'ood Avas the kindest- and 
most pliable soul alive, his spirit was 
very high; and hence that meeting 
Avhich has brought us all here,” says 
Mr. Esmond, resolved never to ac- 
knoAvledge that there had ever been 
any other cause but cards for the 
duel. 

“ I do not like to use bad Avords of 
a nobleman,” says Westbury; “ but if 
my Lord Mohun Avere a commoner, I 
AvoLild say, Y Avas a pity he Avas not 
hanged. He Avas familiar Avith dice 
and Avomen at a time other boys are 
at school being birched ; he Avas as 
Avicked as tlie oldest rake, years ere 
he had done groAving ; and handled 
a SAVord and a foil, and a bloody one, 
too, before he ever used a razor. He 
held poor Will Mountford in talk that 
night, Avhen bloody Dick Hill ran 
him through. He Avill come to a 
bad end, Avill that young lord; and 
no end is bad enough for him,” says 
honest Mr. Westbury : Avhose prophecy 
Avas fulfilled tAvelve years after, upon 
that fatal day Avhen Mohun fell, drag- 
ging doAvn one of the bravest and 
greatest gentlemen in England in his 
fall. 

From Mr. Steele, then, Avho brought 
the public rumor, as Avell as his own 
private intelligence, Esmond learned 
the moA'ements of his unfortunate 
mistress. Steele’s heart Avas of very 
inflammable composition ; and the 
gentleman usher spoke in terms of 
boundless admiration both of the 
AvidoAv (that most beautiful AAmman, 
as he said) and of her daughter, avIio, 
in the Captain’s eyes, Avas a still 
greater paragon. If the pale AvidoAV, 
Avhom Caj)tain Richard, in his poetic 
rapture compared to a Niobe in tears, 
— to a Sigismunda, — to a Aveeping 
Bclvidera, Avas an object the most 
lovely and ])athetic Avhich his eyes 
had eA'cr beheld, or for Avliich his 
heart had melted, even her ripened 


110 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


perfections and beauty were as nothing 
compared to the promise of that ex- 
treme loveliness which the good Cap- 
tain saw in her daiighter. It was 
matre imhra jilia putcrior. Steele 
comjjosed sonnets whilst he was on 
duty in his Prince’s antechamber, to 
the maternal and tilial charms. He 
wmuld speak for hours about them to 
Harry Esmond; and, indeed, he could 
have chosen few subjects more likely 
to interest the unhapjDy yoiing man, 
whose heart was now as always de- 
voted to these ladies ; and who was 
thankful to all who loved them, or 
praised them, or wished them well. 

Not that his fidelity was recom- 
pensed by any answering kindness, or 
show of relenting even, on the part 
of a mistress obdurate now after ten 
years of love and benefactions. The 
poor young man getting no answer, 
save Tusher’s, to that letter which he ! 
had written, and being too proud to ' 
write more, opened a part of his heart ' 
to Steele, than whom no man, when ; 
unhappy, could find a kinder hearer, t 
4)r more friendly emissary ; described ! 
jin words Avhich were no doubt jta- | 
thetic, for they came imo pcctoro, and j 
caused honest Dick to weep plentiful- j 
ly) his youth, his constancy, liis fond | 
devotion to that hoiischohrwhich had 
reared him ; his affection, how earned, 
and how tenderly requited until but 
yesterday, and (as far as he might) 
the circumstances and causes for which 
that sad quarrel had made of Esmond 
a prisoner under sentence, a widow 
and orphans of those whom in life he 
held dearest. In terms that might 
well move a harder-hearted man than 
young Esmond’s confidant, — for, in- 
deed, the speaker’s own heart was 
half broke as he uttered them, — he 
described a part of what had taken 
lace in that only sad interview which 
is mistress had granted him ; how 
she had left him with anger and al- 
most imj)recation, whose words and 
thoughts until then had been only 
blessing and kindness ; how she had 
aceused him of the guilt of that blood, 
tn exchange for which he would 


cheerfully have sacrificed his owii (in- 
deed, in this the Lord Mobun, the 
Lord Warwick, and all the gentle- 
men engaged, as well as the common 
rumor out of doors, — Steele told 
him, — bore out the luckless young 
man) ; and with all his heart, and 
tears, he besought Mr. Steele to in- 
form his mistress of her kinsman’s 
unhappiness, and to deprecate tliat 
cruel anger she showed him. Half 
frantic with grief at the injustice 
done him, and contrasting it with a 
thousand soft recollections of love and 
confidence gone by, that made his 
present misery inexpressibly more bit- 
ter, the poor wretch passed many a 
lonely day and wakeful night in a 
kind of powerless despair and rage 
against his iniquitous fortune. It was 
the .softest hand that struck him, the 
gentlest and most compassionate na- 
ture that persecuted him. “ I would 
as lief,” he said, “ have pleaded guilty 
to the murder, and have suffered for 
it like any other felon, as have to en- 
dure the torture to which my mistress 
subjects me.” 

Although the recital of Esmond’s 
story, and his passionate appeals and 
remonstrances, drew so many tears 
from Dick who heard them, they had 
no effect upon the person whom tliey 
Avere designed to move. Esmond’s 
ambassador came back from the mis- 
sion Avith Avhi( h the poor young gen- 
tleman had charged him, AA’ith a sad 
blank face and a sliake of the head, 
Avhich told that there Avas no hope for 
the prisoner ; and scarce a wretched 
culprit in that prison of NcAvgate or- 
dered for execution, and trembling 
for a reprieve, felt more cast doAvn 
than Mr. Esmond, innocent and con- 
demned. 

As had been arranged bctAATen tho 
prisoner and his counsel in their con- 
sultations, Mr. Steele had gone to the 
DoAvager’s house in Chelsey, Avhere it 
has been said the AvidoAV and lier cr- 
])hans AAxre, liad seen my Lady Vis- 
countess, and pleaded the cause cl her 
unfortunate kinsman. “ And I tliink 
I spoke well, my poor boy,” says IHr. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


Ill 


Steele ; “ for who would not speak 
well in such a cause, and before so 
beautiful a judge 1 I did not sec the 
lovely- Beatrix (sure her famous 
namesake of riorence was never lialf 
so beautiful), only the y'oung Vis- 
count was in the room with the Lord 
Churchill, my Lord of Marlborough’s 
eldest son. But these young gentle- 
men went off to the garden ; I could 
see them from the window tilting at 
each other with poles in a mimic 
tournament (grief touches the young 
but lightly, and I remember that 1 
beat a dram at the coffin of my own 
father). My Lady Viscountess looked 
out at the two boys at their game 
and said, — ‘You see, sir, children 
are taught to use weapons of death as 
toys, and to make a sport of murder ’ ; 
and as she spoke she looked so lovely, 
and stood there in herself so sa l ami 
beautiful, an instance of that doc- 
trine whereof I am a humble preach- 
er, that had I not dedicated my little 
volume of the ‘ Christian Hero ’ — 
(I perceive, Harry, thou hast not cut 
the leaves of it. The sermon is gool, 
believe me, though the preacher’s life 
may not answer it), — 1 say, had n’t 
I dedicated the volume to Lord Cutts, 

I would have asked permission to 
place her Ladyship’s name on the 
■iirst page. I think I never saw such 
a beautiful violet as that of her eyes, 
Harry. Her complexion is of the 
pink of tlie blush-rose, she hath an 
exquisite turned wrist and dimpled 
hand, and 1 make no doubt — ” 

“ Did you come to tell mo about 
the dimples on my Lady’s hand ? ” 
broke out Mr. Esmond, sadly. 

“A lovely creature in affliction 
seems always doubly beautiful to me,” 
says the poor Captain, who indeed 
was but too often in a state to sec 
double, and so checked he resumed 
the interrupted thread of his story. 
“As I spoke my business,” Mr Steele 
said, “ and narrated to your mistress 
what all the world knows, and the 
other side hath been eager to acknowl- 
edge, — that you had tried to put | 
yourself between the two lords, and ' 


to take your patron’s quarrel on your 
own point ; I recounted the general 
praises of your gallantry, besides my 
Ivord Mohun’s particular testimony 
to it ; I thought the widow listened 
with some interest, and her eyes — 
1 have never seen such a violet, Har- 
ry — looked uj) at mine once or twice. 
But after I had spoken on this theme 
for a while she suddenly broke away 
with a burst of grief. ‘ 1 would to 
God, sir,’ she said, ‘I had never heard 
that word gallantry which you use, or 
known the meaning of it. IMy Lord 
might have been here but for that; 
my home might be hapj)y ; my poor 
boy have a father. It was what j'ou 
gentlemen call gallantry came into 
my home, and drove my husband on 
to the cruel sword that killed him. 
You should not speak the word to a 
Christian woman, sir, a poor widowed 
mother of orphans, whose home Avas 
happy until the world came into it, — 
the wicked godless Avorld, that takes* 
the blood of the innocent, and lets the 
guilty go free.’ 

“ As the afflicted lady spoke in this 
strain, sir,” Mr. Steele continued, “ it 
seemed as if indignation moA'cd her, 
even more than grief. ‘ Compensa- 
tion ! ’ she' Avent on passionately, her 
checks and eyes kindling ; ‘ Avhat com- 
pensation docs your Avorld gfvc the 
AvidoAv for her husband, and the chil- 
dren for the murderer of their father? 
Tlie wretch avIio did the deed has not 
even a punishment. Conscience ! 
Avhat conscience has he, Avho can en- 
ter the house of a friend, Avhispcr 
falsehood and insult to a Avomau that 
never harmed him, and stab the kind 
heart that trusted him ? My Lord — 
my Lord Wretch’s, my Lord Vil- 
lain’s, my Lord Murde.-cr’s peers 
meet to try him, and they dismiss him 
Avith a Avord or tAvo of reproof, and 
send him into tlie A\wld again, to 
pursue Avomen Avith lust and false- 
hood, and to murder unsuspecting 
guests that harbor him. That day 
my Lord — my Lord Murderer — ( I 
Avill never name him) — Avas let loose, 
a Avoman Avas executed at Tyburn for 


112 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


stealing in a shop. But a man may 
rob anotlier of liis life, or a lady of 
her honor, and shall pay no penalty ! 
I take my child, run to the throne, 
and oil my knees ask for justice, and 
the King refuses me. The King ! he 
is no king of mine, — he never shall 
be. He, too, robbed the throne from 
the king his father, — the true king, — 
and he has gone unpunished, as the 
great do.^ 

“ I then thought to speak for you,” 
Mr. Steele continued, “ and I inter- 
posed by saying, ‘ There was one, 
madam, who, at least, would have 
put his own breast betAveen your hus- 
band’s and my Lord Mohun’s sword. 
Your poor young kinsman, Harry Es- 
mond, hath told me that he tried to 
draw the quarrel on himself.’ 

“ Are you come from him ? ’ asked 
the lady” (so Mr. Steele went on), 
“ rising up with a great severity and 
stateliness. ‘ I thought you had come 
from the Princess. I saAV Mr. Es- 
mond in his prison, and bade him 
farewell. He brought misery into my 
house. He never should have entered 
it.’ 

“‘Madam, madam, he is not to 
blame,’ I interposed,” continued Mr. 
Steele. 

“‘Do I blame him to you, sir?’ 
asked the widow. ‘ If ’t is he who 
sent you, say that I have taken coun- 
sel, where’ — she spoke with a very 
pallid cheek now, and a break in her 
A'oice — ‘ where all avIio ask may 
IniA'e it ; — and that it bids me to part 
from him, and to see him no more. 
We met in the prison for the last time, 
— at least for years to come. It 
may be, in years hence, when — when 
our knees and our tears and our con- 
trition have changed our sinful hearts, 
sir, and wrought our pardon, Ave may 
meet again, — but not noAV. After 
Avhat has jiasscd, I could not bear to 
see him. 1 Avish him Avell, sir ; but I 
Avish him farcAvell, too ; and if he has 
that — that regard tOAvards us Avhich 
he speaks of, 1 beseech him to prove- 
it by obeying me in this.’ 

“ ‘ I shall break the young man’s 


heart, madam, by this hard sen- 
tence,’ ” Mr. Steele said. 

“ The lady shook her head,” con- 
tinued my kind scholar. “ ‘ The 
hearts of young men, IMr. Steele, are 
not so made,’ she said. ‘ Mr. Esmond 
AAull find other — other friends! The 
mistress of this house has relented 
very much tOAvards the late lord’s 
son,’ she added, Avith a blush, ‘ and 
has promised me, that is, has promised 
that she Avill care for his fortune. 
Whilst.I IKe in it, after the horrid 
horrid deed - av I nch has passed, Castle- 
Avood must never be a home to him, 
— never. Nor Avould I Iiua'c him 
Avrite to me — except — no — I AA'ould 
have him never Avrite to me, nor seo 
him more. Give him, if you Avill, 
my parting — Hush! not a Avord of 
this before my daughter.’ 

“Here the fair Beatrix entered 
from the river, Avith her cheeks 
flushing Avith health, and looking 
only the more lovely and fresh for 
the mourning habiliments Avhich she 
Avore. And my Lady Viscountess 
said, — 

“ ‘ Beatrix, this is Mr. Steele, 
gentleman-usher to the Prince’s 
Highness. When docs your ucav 
comedy appear, Mr. Steele? ’ I hope 
thou Avilt be out of prison for the first 
night, Harry.” 

The sentimental Captain concluded 
his sad tale, saying, “ Faith, the 
beauty of Film jmlcrior drove puJeram 
mat7’em out of my head ; and yet as I 
came down the river, and thought 
about the pair, the pallid dignity 
and exquisite grace of the matron 
had the uppermost, and I thought 
her cA^en more noble than the vir- 
gin ! ” 

The party of prisoners lived A'cry 
Avell in NcAA'gatc, and Avith comforts 
ATry different to those Avhich Avcrc 
aAvarded to the poor Avretches tlicre 
(his insensibility to their misery, 
their gayety still more frightful, their 
curses and blasphemy, liath struck 
Avith a kind of shame since, — as 
proving how selfish, during his im- 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


113 


prisonmcTit, lus o^vn particular grief 
was, and how entirely the thoughts 
of it absorbed liiin) : if the three 
gcntlcm u lived well under the care 
of the Warden of Newgate, it Avas 
because they paid Avell : and indeed 
the cost at the dearest ordinary or the 
grandest tavern in London could not 
have furnished a longer reckoning, 
than our host of the “ Handculf 
Inn,” — as Colonel Westbiiry called 
it. Our rooms were the three in the 
gate over Newgate, — on the second 
story looking up NcAVgatc Street 
towards Chea])side and Paul’s Church. 
And Ave had leave to Avalk on the 
roof, and could see thence Smithfield 
and the Bluccoat Boys’ School, 
Gardens, and the Chartreux, Avliere, 
as Harry Esmond remembered, I)i; k 
the Scholar, and his friend Tom 
Tusher, had had their schooling. 

Harry could ncA^er have paid his 
share of that prodigious heavy reck- 
oning Avhich my landlord brought to 
his guests once a Aveek : for he had 
but three pieces in his pockets that 
fatal night before the duel, Avhen the 
gentlemen Averc at cards, and otfered 
to play five. But Avhilst he Avas yet 
ill at the Gatehouse, after Lady 
Castlewood had visited him there, 
and before his trial, there came one in 
an orange-taAvny coat and blue lace, 
the livery Avhich the Esmonds ahvays 
wore, and brought a sealed packet for 
Mr. Esmond, Avhich contained twenty 
guineas, and a note saying that a 
counsel had been appointed for him, 
and that more money Avould be forth- 
coming Avhenever he needed it. 

’T Avas a queer letter from the 
scholar as she Avas, or as she called 
herself: the DoAvager Viscountess 
Castlewood, written in the strange 
barbarous French which yhe and 
many other fine ladies of that time — 
Avitness her Grace of Portsmouth — 
employed. Indeed, spelling Avas not 
an article of general commodity in 
the Avorld then, and my Lord Marl- 
borough’s letters can show that he, 
for one, had but a little share of this 
part of grammar ; — ■ 


“ Mono Coussin,” my Lady Vis- 
countess DoAvager Avrotc, “je scay 
que vous vo:is etes bravement batcAv 
ct grie\'ement blessay — du costc de 
feu M. le Vicomte. M. le Compte de 
Vari(iue ne se playt qua pai’lay de 
vous : M. de Moon au^y. II di que 
vous avay voulew vous bastre avecque 
luy — (pie vous estes plus fort que luy 
fur Fayscrimme — quil’y a surtout 
certainc Botte (^ue a'ous scavay quil 
n’a jammay sceu pariay : et que e’en 
eut (it(i fay de luy si vouseluy vous 
vous fussiay battcAvs ansamb. Aincy 
cc pauv Vicompte est mort. Mort et 
peutayt — Mon coussin, mon coussin ! 
jay dans la tnyste que vous n’estes 
quung pety Monst — angey que les 
Esmonds ong tousjours este'. La 
A'euvc est chay inoy. J’ay recuilly 
cet’ pan VC famme. Elle est furicuse 
cont vous, allans tons les jours 
chercher ley Hoy (d’icy) dcimandant 
a gran cri revanche pour son Mary. 
Elle ne veux Aoyre ni entende parlay 
de vous : pourtant elle ne fay qu’eii 
parlay milfoy ])ar jour. Quand vous 
scray hor prison venay me A’oyre. 
J’auray soing de a'ous. Si cette 
petite Prude A'cnt se dcifaire de song 
pety Monste (H(51as je craing qiiil ne 
soy trotar !) je m’en chargeray. J’ay 
encor quelqu interay ct quclques escus 
de costay. 

“ La Veuve se raccommode avee 
Miladi Marlboro qui est tout pui^ante 
avccque la Heine Anne. Cet dam 
sent(iraysent pour la petite prude; 
qui pourctant a un fi du raesme asgc 
que vous savay. 

“En sortant de prisong A^enez icy. 
Je ne puy a’ous rccevoir chaymoy a 
cause des m(ichanset(5s du mondc, may 
pro du moy Amus aurez logement. 

“Isabelle Yicomtksse d’Esmond.” 

Marchioness of Esmond this lady 
sometimes called herself, in virtue of 
that patent which had been given by 
the late King James to Harry Es- 
mond’s hither ; and in this state she 
had her train carried by a knight’s 
wife, a cup and cover of assay to 
drink fi'oin, and fringed cloth. 

H 


114 


THE HISTOEY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


He who was of the same a^e as 
little Francis, whom we shall lience- 
forth call Viscount Castlcwood here, 
\vas H. H. H. the Prince of Wales, 
born in the same year and month 
with F'rank, and just proclaimed at 
Saint Germains, King of Great Brit- 
ain, F'rance, and Ireland. 

— p — 

CHAPTER III. 

I TAKE THE queen’s PAY IN QUIN’S 
REGIMENT. 

The fellow in the orange-tawny 
livery with blue lace and facings was 
in waiting when Esmond came out 
of prison, and, taking the young gen- 
tleman’s slender baggage, led the way 
out of that odious Newgate, and by 
Fleet Conduit, down to the Thames, 
Avhere a ])air of oars Avas called, and 
they went up the river to Chelsey. 
Esmond thought the sun had never 
shone .so bright ; nor the air felt so 
fresh and exhilarating. Temple Gar- 
den, as they rowed by, looked like 
the garden of Eden to him, and the 
aspect of the quays, Avharves, and 
buildingsby the river, Somerset House, 
and Westminster (where the splen- 
did new bridge was just beginning), 
Lambeth tower and palace, and that 
busy shining scene of the Thames 
SAvarming Avith boats and barges, 
filled his heart AAuth pleasure and 
cheerfulness, — as Avell such a beau- 
•tiful scene might to one Avho had been 
a prisoner so long, and Avith so many 
dark thoughts deepening the gloom 
of his captivity. They roAv^cd up at 
length to the pretty village of Chel- 
sey, Avhere the nobility have many 
handsome country-houses ;* and so 
came to my Lady Viscountess’s house, 
a cheerful ncAV house in the roAy fac- 
ing the riATr, Avith a handsome gar- 
den behind it, and a pleasant look- 
out both tOAvards Surrey and Ken- 
sington, Avhere stands the noble 
ancient })alace of the Lord Warwick, 
Harry’s reconciled adversary. 

Here in her Ladyship’s saloon, the 


young man saAV again some of those 
pictures Avhich had been at Castle- 
Avood, and Avhich she had removed 
thence on the death of her lord, 
Harry’s fother. Specially, and in the 
place of honor, Avas Sir Peter Lely’s 
picture of the Honorable IMistress 
Isabella Esmond as Diana, in ycIloAv 
satin, Avith a boAV in her hand and a 
crescent in her forehead ; and dogs 
frisking about her. ’T Avas painted 
about the time Avhen royal Endymi- 
ons Avere said to find favor Avith this 
virgin huntress ; and, as goddesses 
liaA'c youth perpetual, this one be- 
lieved * to the day of her death that 
she never grcAv older : and always 
persisted in supposing the picture 
Avas still like her. 

After he had been shoAvn to her 
room by the groom of the chamber, 
Avho filled many offices besides in her 
Ladyship’s modest houseliold, and 
after a proper interval, his elderly 
goddess Diana vouchsafed to appear 
to the young man. A blackamoor in 
a Turkish habit, Avith red boots and 
a silver collar, on Avhich the Viscount- 
ess’s arm Avere engraven, preceded 
her and bore her cuslnon ; then came 
her gentlcAVoman ; a little pack of 
spaniels barking and frisking about 
preceded the austere huntress, — then, 
behold, the Viscountess herself “ drop- 
ping odors.” Esmond recollected 
from his childhood that rich aroma of 
musk Avhich his mothcr-in-laAv (for 
she may be called so) exhaled. As 
the sky groAvs redder and redder to- 
AA^ards sunset, so, in the decline of her 
years, the checks of my Lady DoAva- 
gcr blushed more dec])ly. Her face 
Avas illuminated Avith vermilion, Avhich 
appeared the brighter from the Avhite 
paint employed to set it off. She 
Avore the ringlets Avhich had been in 
fashion in King Charles’s time; 
Avhereas the ladies of King William’s 
had head-dresses like the tOAvers of 
(''ybcle. Her eyes gleamed out from 
the midst of this queer structure of 
paint, dyes, and pomatums. Such 
Avas my Lady Viscountess, Mr. Es- 
mond’s father’s widow. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


115 


lie made her such a profound how 
as her dignity and rclationslnp merit- 
ed, and advanced with the greatest 
gravity, and once more kisseil that 
liand, upon the trembling knuckles of 
wliich glittered a score of rings, — re- 
membering old times when that 
trembling hand made him ti-emble. 
“ Marchioness,” says he, bowing, and 
on one knee, “ is it only the hand I 
may have the honor of saluting ? ” 
For, accompanying that inward laugh- 
ter, which the sight of such an aston- 
ishing old figure might well produce 
in the young man, there was good- 
will too, and the kindness of consan- 
guinity. She had been his father’s 
wife, and was his grandfather’s daugh- 
ter. She had suffered him in old days, 
and was kind to him now after her 
fiishion. And now that bar-sinister 
was removed from Esmond’s thought, 
and that secret opprobrium no longer 
cast upon his mind, he was pleased to 
feel himily ties' and own them, — per- 
haps secretly rain of the sacrifice lie 
had made, and to think that he, Es- 
mond, was really the chief of his 
house, and only prevented by his own 
magnanimity from advancing his 
claim. 

At least, ever since he had learned 
that secret from his poor patron on 
his dying bed, actually as he was 
standing beside it, be had felt an inde- 
pendency which he had never known 
before, and which since did not desert 
him. So he called his old aunt Mar- 
chioness, but with an air as if he was 
the Marquis of Esmond who so ad- 
dressed her. 

n)id she read in the young gentle- 
man’s eyes, which had hoav no fear of 
hers or their superannuated authori- 
ty that he knew or suspected the 
truth about his birth "? She gave a 
start of surprise at his altered man- 
ner : indeed, it was quite a different 
bearing to that of the Cambridge 
student Avho had paid her a visit two 
years since, and whom she had dis- 
missed with five pieces sent by the 
groom of the chamber. She eyed 
him, then trembled a little more than 


was her wont, perhaps, and said, 
“ Welcome, cousin,” in a frightened 
voice. 

His resolution, as has been said be- 
fore, had been quite different, namely, 
so to bear himself through life as if 
the secret of his birth was not known 
to him ; but he suddenly and rightly 
determined on a different course. He 
asked that her Ladyship’s attendants 
should be dismissed, and when they 
were private, — “Welcome, nephew, 
at least, madam, it should be,” he 
said. “ A grea. wrong has been done 
to me and to you, and to my poor 
mother, who is no more.” 

“ I declare before Heaven that I 
Avas guiltless of it,” ^he cried out, 
giving up her 6ause at once. “ It 
was your Avicked father Avho — ” 

“ Who brought this dishonor on 
our family,” says Mr. Esmond. “ I 
know it full AA^ell. I AAmnt to disturb 
no one. Those avIio are in present 
possession have been my dearest ben- 
efactors, and arc quite innocent of in- 
tentional wrong to me. The late 
lord, my dear patron, kncAv not the 
truth until a fcAV months before his 
death, Avhen Father Holt brought the 
ncAvs to him.” 

“ The Avreteh ! he had it in confes- 
sion ! he had it in confession ! ” cried 
out the Dowager Lady. 

“•Not so. He learned it elseAvherc 
asAvell as in confession,” Mr. Esmond 
ansAvered. “ My father, AA'hen Avonnd- 
ed at the Boyne, told the truth to a 
French priest, Avho Avas in hiding 
after the battle, as Avell as to the priest 
there, at Avhosc house he died. This 
gentleman did not think fit to diAmlge 
the story till he metAvith Mr. Holt at 
Saint Omcr’s. And the latter kept 
it back for his OAvn purpose, and un- 
til he had learned Avhether my moth- 
er Avas alive or no. She is dead years 
since, my poor patron told me Avith 
his dying breath, and I doul)t him 
not. "l do not know even whether I 
could prove a marriage. I Avould not 
if I could. I do not care to bring 
shame on our name, or grief upon 
those whom I love, hoAvever hardly 


116 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


they may use me. My father’s son, 
madam, won’t aggravate the wrong 
my till her did you. Continue to be 
his lyidow, and give me your kind- 
ness. ’T is all I ask from yon ; and I 
shall never speak of this matter again.” 

“ Muis vous etes nn noble jeune 
homme ! ” breaks out my Lady, speak- 
ing, as usual with her when she was 
agitated, in the French language. 

“ Noblesse oblige,” says Mr, Es- 
mond, making her a low bow. 
“There are those alive to whom, in 
return for their love to me, I often 
fondly said I would give my life 
away. Shall I be their enemy now, 
and quarrel about a title ? What 
matters who has it ? ’T is with the 
family still.” 

“ VVhat can there be in that little 
prude of a woman that makes men 
so raffbler about her? ” cries out my 
Lady Dowager. “ She was here for 
a month petitioning the King. She 
is pretty and ivcll conserved ; hut she 
has not the be/ air. In his late Maj- 
esty’s Court all the men pretended to 
admire her, and she was no better 
than a little Avax doll. She is better 
now, and looks the sister of her 
daughter ; but ivhat mean you all by 
bepraising her? Mr. Steele, who 
Avas in Avaiting on Prince George, 
seeing her Avith her tAAO children 
going to Kensington, Avrit a poem 
about her, and says he shall AA^ear her 
colors, and dress in black for the fu- 
ture. Mr. Congreve says he Avill 
Avrite A ‘ Mourning WidoAA^’ that 
shall be better than his ‘Mourning 
Bride.’ Though their husbands 
quarrelled and fought Avhen that 
Avretch Churchill deserted the King 
(for Avhich he deseri-ed to be hung). 
Lady Marlborough has again gone 
Avild about the little AvidoAv ; insulted 
me in my OAvn draAving-room, by say- 
ing that ’t Avas not the old AvidoAv, but 
the young Viscountess, she had come 
to see. Little CastlcAvood and little 
Lord Churchill are to be SAvorn 
friends, and have boxed each other 
twice or thrice like brothers already. 
’T was that Avicked young Mohun 


aaLo, coming back from the proA'inccs 
last year, Avhere he had disinterred 
her, raved about lier all the winter ; 
said she Avas a pearl set before SAvine ; 
and killed poor stupid Frank. The 
quarrel Avas all about his wife. I 
knoAV ’t Avas all about her. Was 
there anything betAveen her and 
Mohun, nephcAv? Tell me noAv — 
was there anything? About 3'our- 
self, I do not ask you to ansAver 
questions.” 

Mr. Esmond blushed up. “My 
Lady’s virtue is like that of a saint in 
heaA'en, madam,” he cried out. 

“ Eh ! — mon neveu. Many saints 
get to heaven after having a deal to 
repent of. I believe you are like all 
the rest of the fools, and madly in 
loA’e Avith her,” 

“ Indeed, I loA’cd and honored her 
before all the Avorld,” Esmond an- 
SAA cred. “ I take no shame in that.” 

“And she has shut- her door on 
you, — giA'en the living to that hor- 
rid young cub, son of that horrid old 
bear, Tushcr, ajul says she Avill never 
see you more. Monsieur mon neveu, 

— Ave are all like that. When I Avas 
a young Avoman, I ’m positive that a 
thousand duels AA^ere fought about 
me. And Avhen poor Monsieur de 
Souchy droAvned himself in the canal 
at Bruges because I danced Avith 
Count Springbock, I could n’t squeeze 
out a single tear, but danced till five 
o’clock the next n)orning. ’T Aias 
the Count — no, ’t Avas my Lord Or- 
mond that plaj-ed the fiddles, and his 
Majesty did me the honor of dancing 
all night Avith me. Hoav you are 
groAvn ! Y^ou have got the lei air. 
You are a black man. Our Esmonds 
are all black. The little prude’s son 
is fair; so Avas his father, — fair and 
stupid. Y'ou yvere an ugl}' little 
Avretch Avhen you came to CastlcAvood, 

— you AA'ere all eyes, like a young 
I croAv. We intended you should be a 

])riest. That aAvful Father Holt — 
hoAv he used to frighten me Avhen I 
Avas ill ! I have a comfortable direc- 
tor now, — the Abbe Douillette, — a 
dear man. We make meagre on 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


117 


Fridays always. My cook is a de- 
vout pious man. You, of course, arc 
of the ri,<^lit way of thinking. They 
say the Prince of Orange is very ill 
indeed.” 

In this way the old Dowager rat- 
tled on reinorsely to Mr. Esmond, 
who was quite astounded with her 
present volubility, contrasting it Avith 
her former haughty behavior to him. 
But she had taken him into favor for 
the moment, and chose not only to 
like him, as far as her nature permit- 
ted, but to be afraid of him ; and he 
found himself to be as familiar Avith 
her noAV as a young man, as, Avhen a 
boy, he had been timorous and silent. 
She was as good as her Avord respect- 
ing him. She introduced him to her 
company, of Avhich she entertained a 
good deal, — of the adherents of 
King James of course, — and a great 
deal of loud intriguing took place over 
her card-tables. She presented Mr. Es- 
mond as her kinsman to many per- 
sons of honor; she supplied him not 
illiberally Avith money, Avhich he had 
no scruple in accepting from her, con- 
sidering the relationship Avhich he 
bore to her, and the sacrifices Avhich 
he himself Avas making in behalf of 
the fiimily. But he had made up his 
mind to continue at no Avomah’s 
apron-strings longer ; and perhaps 
had cast about hoAv he should distin- 
guish himself, and make himself a 
name, Avhich his singular fortune had 
denied him. A discontent Avith his 
former bookish life and quietude, — 
a bitter feeling of revolt at that 
slavery in Avhich he had chosen to 
confine himself for the sake of those 
whose hardness tOAvards him made 
his heart bleed, — a restless Avish to 
see men and the Avorld, — led him to 
think of the military profession ; at 
any rate, to desire to see a fcAv cam- 
paigns, and accordingly he pressed 
his new patroness to get him a pair 
of colors ; and one day had the honor 
of finding himself appointed an en- 
sign in Colonel Quin’s regiment of 
Fusileers on the Irish estai)lishment. 

;Mr. Esmond’s commission Avas 


scarce three weeks old Avhen that acci- 
dent befell King AVilliam Avhich end- 
ed the life of the greatest, the Avisest, 
the bravest, and most clement sover- 
eign Avhom England ever kncAV. 
’T Avas the fashion of the hostile party 
to assail this great prince’s reputation 
during his life ; but the joy Avhich 
they and all his enemies in Europe 
shoAved at his death, is a proof of the 
terror in Avhich they held him. 
Young as Esmond Avas, he Avas Avise 
enough (and generous enough too, 
let it be said) to scorn that indecency 
of gratulation Avhich broke out 
amongst the folloAvers of King James 
in London, upon the death of this 
illustrious prince, this invincible Avar- 
rior, this Avise and moderate states- 
man. Loyalty to the exiled king’s 
family Avas traditional, as has been 
said, in that house to Avhich Mr. 
Esmond belonged. His father’s widoAV 
I'.ad all her hopes, sympathies, recol- 
lections, prejudices, engaged on King 
James’s side; and Avas certainly as 
noisw a conspirator as ever asserted 
the king’s rights, or abused his oppo- 
nent’s, OA'er a quadrille table or a dish 
of bohea. Her Ladyship’s house 
swarmed Avith ecclesiastics, in dis- 
guise and out ; Avith tale-bearers from 
St. Germains ; and quidnuncs that 
knew the last neAvs from Versailles ; 
nay, the exact force and numher of 
the next expedition Avhich the French 
king Avas to send from Dunkirk, and 
Avhich Avas to SAvalloAv up the Prince 
of Orange, his army and his court. 
She had received the Duke of Ber- 
Avick when he landed here in ’96. 
She kept the glass he drank from, 
voAAung she neA^er Avould use it till she 
drank King James the Third’s health 
in it on his Majesty’s return ; she had 
tokens from the Queen, and relics of 
the saint who, if the story Avas true, 
had not ahvays been a saint as far as 
she and many others Avere concerned. 
She believed in the miracles Avrought 
at his tomb, and had a hundred 
authentic stories of Avondrous cures 
effected by the blessed king’s rosaries, 
the medals Avhich ho wore, the locks 


118 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


of liis hair, or wliat not. Esmond re- 
rneml)ered a score of (iiarvellous talcs 
which the credulous old woman told 
him. There was the Bisho}> of Autun, 
that Avas healed of a malady he had 
for forty years, and which left him 
after he said mass for the repose of 
the king’s soul. There was M. 
Marais, a surgeon in Auvergne, who 
had a palsy in both his legs, Avhich 
was cured through tlie king’s inter- 
cession. There was Philip Pitet, of 
the Benedictines, Avho had a sutfocat- 
ing cough, Avhich Avcllnigh killed 
him, but he besought relief of Heaven 
through the merits and intercession 
of the blessed king, and he straight- 
Avay felt a profuse SAveat breaking out 
all over him, and Avas recoveretl per- 
fectly. And there Avas the Avife of 
Mons. Lepervier, dancing-master to 
the Duke of Saxe-Gotha, Avho was 
entirely eased of a rheumatism by the 
king’s intercession, of Avhich miracle 
there could be no doubt, for her sur- 
geon and his apprentice had gh^en 
their testimony, under oath, that they 
did not in any Avay contribute to the 
cure. Of these tales, and a thousand 
like them, Mr. Esmond believetl as 
much as he chose. His kinsAA'oman’s 
greater foith had swalloAvfor them all. 

The English High Church party 
did not adopt these legends. But 
truth and honor, as they thought, 
bound them to the exiled king’s side ; 
nor had the banished family any Avarm- 
er supporter than that kind lady of 
Castlewood, in Avhose house Esmond 
Avas bi-ought up. She influenced her 
husband, very much more perhaps 
than my Lord kneAV, Avho admired 
his Avife prodigiously though he might 
he inconstant to her, and Avho, adverse 
to the trouble of thinking himself, 
gladly enough adopted the opinions 
Avhich she chose for him. To one of 
her simple and faithful heart, alle- 
giance to any soA^ereign but the one 
Avas impossible. To serve King 
William for intei'est’s sake Avould 
have been a monstrous hypocrisy and 
treason. Her pure conscience "could 
no more have consented to it than to 


a theft, a forgery, or any other bast, 
action. Lord CastlcAVOod might liaA'c 
been won OA^er, no doubt, but his Avife 
ncA^er could : and he submitted his 
conscience to hers in this case as he 
did in most others, Avhen he Avas not 
tem])ted too sorely. And it Avas from 
his affection and gratitude most likely, 
and from that eager devotion for Ins 
mistress, Avhich characterized all Es- 
mond’s youth, that the young man 
subscribed to this, and other articles 
of faith, Avhich his fond benefactress 
set liim. Had she been a Whig, he 
had been one ; had she folloAvcd Mr. 
Eox, and turned Quaker, no doubt 
he Avould have abjured ruffles and a 
periAvig, and have forsAvoin SAvords, 
lace-coats, and clocked stockings. 
In the scholars’ boyish disputes at 
the University, Avhere ])arties ran very 
Iiigh, Esmond Avas noted as a Jacob- 
ite, and very likely from vanity as 
much as affection took the side of his 
family. 

Almost the Avhole of the clergy of 
the country and more than a half of 
the nation Avere on this side. Ours 
is the most loyal people in the Avorld 
surely ; Ave aclmire our kings, and are 
faithful to them long jiftcr they liaA'e 
ceased to be true to ns. ’T is a Avon- 
dcr to any one Avho looks back at the 
history of the Stuart family to think 
hoAV they kicked their croAvns aAvay 
from them; hoAv they flung aAvay 
chances after chances ; Avhat treasures 
of loyalty they dissipated, and hoAv 
fixtally they Avere bent on consum- 
mating their oavii ruin. If ever men 
had fidelity, ’t Avas they ; if ever men 
squandered opportunity, ’t Avas they ; 
and, of {ill the enemies they had, they 
themselves Avere' the most fatal.* 

When the Princess Anne succeeded, 
the wearied nation Avas glad enough 
to cry a truce from all these Avars, 
controversies, and conspiracies, and 
to accept in the person of a Princess 

* n TTOTTOl, oToi' Stj JW 0eOU5 /SpOTol alriOtOVT^L, 
rjiJ-euiv yap <f)a<rl KaK ep.p.ei'aL, oi Si koX 
auTOi 

O'iftrja’ii' dTa.a6a\Cri<Ti,v vjrep popov a\yd 
exoverty. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 


119 


of the blood royal a compromise be- 
tween the parties into which the 
country was divided. The Tories 
could serve under her with easy con- 
sciences ; thouj^h a Tory herself, she 
represented the triumph of tlie Whi<^ 
opinion. The people of England, al- 
ways liking that their Princes should 
be attached to their own families, 
were pleased to think the Princess 
was fiuthful to hers ; and up to the 
very last day and hour of her reign, 
and but for that fatality which he in- 
herited from his fathers along with 
their claims to the English crown, 
King James the Third might have 
worn it. But he neither knew how 
to wait an opportunity, nor to use it 
when he had it ; he was venturesome 
when he ought to have been cautious, 
and cautious when he ought to have 
dared everything. ’T is with a sort of 
rage at his inaptitude that one thinks 
of his melancholy story. Do the 
Pates deal more specially with kings 
than with common men ? One is apt 
to imagine so, in considering the his- 
tory of that royal race, in whose be- 
half so much fidelity, so much valor, 
so much blood were desperately and 
bootlcssly expended. 

The King dead then, the Princess 
Anne (ugly Anne Hyde’s daughter, 
our Dowager at Chelsey called her) 
was proclaimed by trumpeting her- 
alds all over the town from VYest- 
minstcr to Ludgate Hill, amidst im- 
mense jubilations of the people. 

Next week my Lord Marlborough 
was promoted to the Garter, and to 
be Captain-General of her Majesty’s 
forces at home and abroad. This 
appointment only inflamed the Dowa- 
ger’s rage, or, as she thought it, her 
fidelity to her rightful sovereign. 
“ The Princess is but a puppet in the 
hands of that fury of a woman, who 
comes into my drawing-room and in- 
sults me to my face. What can come 
to a country that is given over to 
such a woman ? ” says the Dowager ; 
“As for that double-faced traitor, my 
Lord Marlborough, he has betrayed 
every man and every woman with 


whom he has had to deal, except his 
horrid wife, who makes him tremble. 
’T is all over with the country when 
it has got into the clutches of such 
wretches as these.” 

Esmond’s old kinswoman saluted 
the new powers in this way ; but 
some good fortune at last occurred to 
a family which stood in great need of 
it, by the advancement of these famous 
personages, who benefited humbler 
people that had the luck of being in 
their fiivor. Before Mr. Esmond left 
England in the month of August, 
and being then at Portsmouth, where 
he had joined his regiment, and was 
busy at drill, learning the practice 
and mysteries of the musket and 
pike, he heard that a pension on the 
Stamp Office had been got for his late 
beloved mistress, and that the young 
Mistress Beatrix was also to be taken 
into court. So much good, at least, 
had come of the poor widow’s visit to 
London, not revenge upon her hus- 
band’s enemies, but reconcilement to 
old friends who pitied, and seemed 
inclined to serve her. As for the 
comrades in prison and the late mis- 
fortune, Colonel Westbury Avas Avith 
the Captain-General gone to Holland ; 
Captain Macartney Avas uoav at Ports- 
mouth, Avith his regiment of Eusi- 
leers and the force under command 
of his Grace the Duke of Ormond, 
bound for Spain it Avas said ; my 
Lord WarAvick Avas returned home; 
and Lord Mohun, so far from being 
punished for the homicide Avhich had 
brought so much grief and change in- 
to the Esmond family, Avas gone in 
company of my Lord Macclesfield’s 
splendid embassy to the Elector of 
Hanover, carrying the Garter to his 
Highness, and a complimentary let- 
ter from the Queen. 

— • — 

CHAPTER IV. 

RECAPITULATIONS. 

From such fitful lights as coidd be 
cast upon his dark history by the 


120 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


broken narrative of his poor patron, 
torn by rettiorsc and struggling in the 
last pangs of dissolution, Mr. Esmond 
had been made to understand so far, 
that his mother Avas long since dead ; 
and so there could be no question as 
regarded her or her honor, tarnished 
by her husband’s desertion and injury, 
to influence her son in any steps 
which he might take eitlier for prose- 
cuting or relinquishing his own just 
claims. It appeared from my poor 
]..ord’s hurried confession, that he had 
been made acquainted Avith the real 
facts of the case only tAvo years since, 
Avhen Mr. Holt visited him, and Avould 
have implicated him in one of those 
many cons])ii acies by Avhich the secret 
leaders of King James’s party in this 
countiy Avere ever endeavoring to de- 
stroy the Prince of Orange’s life or 
poAA'er; conspiracies so like murder, 
so coAvardly in the means used, so 
Avicked in the end, that our nation 
has sure done Avell in throAving oft’ all 
allegiance and fidelity to the unhappy 
family _that could not vindicate its 
right except by such treachery — by 
such dark intrigue and base agents. 
There Avere designs against King 
AVilliam that Avere no more honorable 
than the ambushes of cut-throats and 
footpads. ’T is humiliating to think 
that a great Prince, possessor of a 
great and sacred right, and upholder 
of a great cause, should have stooped 
to such baseness of assassination and 
treasons as are proved by the unfortu- 
nate King James’s oavu Avarrant and 
sign manual giA'en to his supporters 
iu this country. What he and they 
called levying war Avas, in truth, no 
better than instigating murder. The 
nobhi Prince of Orange burst mag- 
nanimously through those feeble 
meshes of conspiracy in Avhich his 
enemies tried to enA^elop liim : it 
seemed as if their cowardly daggers 
broke upon the breast of his un- 
daunted resolution. After King 
James’s death, the Queen and her 
])eople at St. Germains — priests and 
Avomen for the most part — continued 
their intrigues in behalf of the young 


Prince, James the Third, as he was 
called in France and by his i)arty here 
(this Prince, or Chevalier dc St. 
George, was born in the same year 
Avith Esmond’s young pupil Frank, 
my Lord Viscount’s son); and the 
Prince’s affairs, being in the hands of 
priests and Avomen, Averc conducted 
as priests and women AA’ill conduct 
them, artfully, cruelly, feebly, and to 
a certain bad issue. The moral of 
the Jesuit’s story I think as Avhole- 
some a one as ever Avas Avrit : the 
artfullest, the Avisest, the most toil- 
some, and dexterous plot-builders in 
the Avorld, — there always comes a day 
Avhen the roused public indignation 
kicks their flimsy edifice doAvn, and 
sends its coAvardly enemies a-flying. 
Mr. SAvift hath finely described that 
passion for intrigue, that loA^e of se- 
crecy, slander, and lying, Avhich be- 
longs to AA^eak people, hangers-on of 
weak courts. ’T is the nature of 
such to hate and enAy the strong, and 
conspire their ruin ; and the conspir- 
acy succeeds very Avell, and every- 
thing presages the satisfactory over- 
throw of the great victim ; until one 
day Gitlliver rouses himself, shakes 
off the little vermin of an enemy, and 
Avalks aAvay itnmolested. Ah ! the 
Irish soldiers might Avell say after the 
Boyne, “ Change kings Avith us, and 
Ave Avill fight it OA'cr again.” Indeed, 
the fight Avas not fair betAveen the 
tAA’o. ’Tavus a Aveak, priest-ridden, 
AA’oman-ridden man, AAoth such puny 
allies and weapons as his OAvn poor 
nature led him to choose, contending 
against the schemes, the generalship, 
the Avisdom, and the heart of a hero. 

On one of these many coAA'ard’s 
errands then (for, as I vieAv them 
noAA', I can call them no less), Mr. 
Holt had come to my Lord at Castle- 
Avood, proposing some infallible ])lan 
for the Prince of Orange’s destruction, 
in Avhich my Lord Viscount, loyal- 
ist as he AAais, had indignantly re- 
fused to join. As far as Mr. Esmond 
coAild gather from his dying Avords, 
Holt came to my Lord with a plan 
of insurrection, and offer of the re- 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


121 


ncwal, in his person, of that Mar- 
quis’s title '.vhieh King Janies hatl 
conferred on the preceding Viscount ; 
and on refusal of this bribe, a threat 
ivas made, on Holt’s part, to npset 
mj Lord Viscount’s claim to his 
estate and title of Castlewood alto- 
gether. To back this astounding 
])iecc of intelligence, of which Henry 
Esmond’s patron now had the first 
light. Holt came armed with the late 
lord’s dying declaration, after the 
affair of the Boyne, at Trim, in Ire- 
land, made both to the Irish priest 
and a Ercnch ecclesiastic of Holt’s 
order, that was ivitli King James’s 
army. Holt showed, or pretended to 
show, the marriage certiKcate of the 
late Viscount Esmond with my moth- 
er, in the city of Brussels, in the 
year 1677, when the Viscount, then 
Thomas Esmond, was serving with 
the English army in Flanders ; he 
could show, he said, that this Ger- 
trude, deserted by her husband long 
since, was alive, and a professed nun 
in the . year 1685, at Brussels, in 
which year Thomas Esmond married 
his uncle’s daug'iter, Isabella, now 
called Viscountess Dowager of Castle- 
wood ; and leaving him, for twelve 
hours, to consider this astounding 
news (so the poor dying lord said), 
disappeared with the papers in the 
mysterious way in Avhich he came. 
Esmond knew how, well enough : by 
that window from which he had seen 
the Father issue: — but there was 
no need to explain to my poor lord, 
only to gather from his parting lips 
the words which he would soon be 
able to utter no more. 

Ere the twelve hours were over, 
Holt himself was a prisoner, impli- 
(ated in Sir John Fenwick’s con- 
Ipiracy, and locked up at Ilexton 
first, whence he was transferred to 
the Tower; leaving the poor Lord 
Viscount, who was not aware of the 
others being taken, in daily appre- 
hension of his return, when (as my 
Lord Castlewood declared, calling 
Goil to witness, and with tears in his 
dying eyes) it had been his intention 


at once to give up his estate and his 
title to their proper owner, and to 
retire to his own house at Walcoto 
Avith his family. “ And Avould to 
God I had done it,” the poor lord 
said. “I would not be here now, 
Avounded to death, a miserable, strick- 
en man ! ” 

My Lord Avaited day after day, 
and, as may be supposed, no mes- 
senger came ; but at a month’s 
end Holt got means to convey to him 
a message out of the ToAver Avhich 
was to this effect : that he shouid con- 
sider all unsaid that had been said, 
and that things A/ere as they Avere. 

“ I had a sore temptation,” said 
my poor lord. “ Since I had come 
into this cursed title of CastlcAvood, 
Avbich hath neA’er prospered Avith me, 
I have spent far more than the in- 
come of that estate, and my paternal 
one, too. I calculated all ray means 
down to the last shilling, and found I 
never could pay you back, ray poor 
Harry, whose fortune I had had for 
twelve years. My Avife and children 
must have gone out of the house dis- 
honored, and beggars. God knoAvs, 
it hath been a miserable one for me 
and mine. Like a coward, I clung 
to that respite Avhich Holt gave me. 
I kept the truth from Rachel and you. 
I tried to win money of Mohun, 
and only plunged deeper into debt; I 
scarce dared look thee in the face 
when I saAv thee. This sword hath 
been hanging OA'er my head these tAvo 
years. I SAvear I felt happy when 
Mohun’s blade entered ray side.” 

After lying ten months in the Toav- 
er. Holt, against whom nothing could 
be found except that he Avas a Jesuit 
priest, knoAvn to be in King James’s 
interest, Avas put on shipboard by the 
incorrigible forgiA^eness of King Wil- 
liam, who promised him, however, a 
hanging if ever he should again set 
foot on English shore. More than 
once, whilst he Avas in prison himself, 
Esmond had thought Avhere those pa- 
pers could be, Avhich the Jesuit had 
shoAvn to his patron, and which had 
such an interest for himself. They 


122 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


were not found on Mr. Holt’s person 
Avhen that Father Avas apprehended, 
for liad such been the case my Lords 
of the Council liad seen them, and 
this family history had long since been 
made public. However, Esmond cared 
not to seek the papers. His resolution 
being taken ; his poor mother dead ; 
what matter to him that documents 
existed proving his right to a title 
Avhich he was determined not to claim, 
and of which he vowed never to de- 
prive that family which he loved best 
in the Avorld? Perhaps he took a 
greater pride out of his sacrifice than 
he would have had in those honors 
Avhich he was resolved to forego. 
Again, as long as these titles were 
not forthcoming, Esmond’s kinsman, 
dear young Francis, was the honor- 
able and undisputed owner of the 
CastleAvood estate and title. The 
mere Avord of a Jesuit could not OA^er- 
set F'rank’s right of occupancy, and 
so Esmond’s mind felt actually at case 
to think the papers AA'ere missing, and 
in their absence his dear mistress and 
her son the laAvful lady and lord of 
CastleAvood. 

Very soon after his liberation, Mr. 
Esmond made it his business to ride 
to that village of Ealing Avhere he 
had passed his earliest years in this 
country, and to see if his old guar- 
dians Avere still alive and inhabitants 
of that place. But the only relique 
Avhich he found of old M. Pastoureau 
Avas a stone in the churchyard, Avhich 
told that Athanasius Pastoureau, a 
native of Flanders, lay there buried, 
aged 87 years. The old man’s cot- 
tage, which Esmond perfectly recol- 
lected, and the garden (Avhere in his 
childhood he had passed many hours 
of play and reA'ery, and had many a 
beating from his termagant of a fos- 
ter-mother), Avere noAV in the occupa- 
tion of quite a different family; and 
it Avas Avith difficulty that he could 
learn in the A'illage Avhat had become 
of Pastoureau’s AvidoAv and children. 
The clerk of the parish recollected 
her, — the old man Avas scarce altered 
in the fourteen years that had passed 


since last Esmond set eyes on him. 
It appeared she had pretty soon con- 
soled herself after the death of her 
old husband, Avhom she ruled over, by 
taking a iicav one younger than her- 
self, who spent her money, and ill- 
treated lier and her children. The 
girl died ; one of the boys ’listed ; the 
other had gone apprentice. Old Mr. 
Rogers, the clerk, said he had heard 
that Mrs. Pastoureau Avas dead too. 
She and her husband had left Ealing 
this scA'enyear; and so Mr. Esmond^ 
hopes of gaining any information re- 
garding his parentage from this fam- 
ily Avere brought to an end. He gaA e 
the old clerk a croAvn-piece for his 
neAA^s, smiling to think of the time 
Avhen he and his little playfellows 
had slunk out of the churchyard or 
hidden behind the gravestones, at the 
approach of this aAvful authority. 

Who Avas his mother? What had 
her name been? When did she die? 
Esmond longed to find some one Avho 
could ansAA^er these questions to him, 
and thought even of putting them to 
his aunt the Viscountess, Avho had 
innocently taken the name Avhich be- 
longed of right to Henry’s mother. 
But she kncAV nothing, or chose to 
knoAv nothing on this subject, nor, 
indeed, could Mr. Esmond press her 
to speak much on it. Father Holt 
Avas the only man AAdio could enlight- 
en him, and Esmond felt he must 
Avait until some fresh chance or new 
intrigue might put him face to face 
Avith his old friend, or bring that rest- 
less indefatigable spirit back to Eng- 
land again. 

The appointment to his ensigney, 
and the preparations necessary lor 
the campaign, presently gave the 
young gentleman other matters to 
think of. His new patroness treated 
him very kindly and liberally ; she 
promised to make "interest and pay 
money, too, to get him a company 
speedily; she bade him procure "a 
handsome outfit, both of clothes and 
of arms, and Avas pleased to admire 
him Avhen he made his first appear- 
ance in his laced scarlet coat, and to 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


123 


permit him to salute her on the oc- 
casion of this interesting investiture. 
“ KeJ,” says she, tossing up her old 
head, “ hath always been the color 
worn by the Esinoiids.” And so her 
Ladyship wore it on her own cheeks 
very faithfully to the last. She would 
liavc him be dressed, she said, as be- 
came his father’s son, and paid clieer- 
fiilly for his five-pound beaver, his 
black buckled periwig, and his fine 
holland shirts, and his swords, and 
his pistols, mounted with silver. 
Since the day he was born, poor 
Harry had never looked such a fine 
gentlem in : his liberal step-mother 
filled liis purse with guineas, too, 
some of which Captain Steele and a 
few choice spirits helped Harry to 
S])3nd in an entertainment which 
Hick ordered (and, indeed, would have 
paid for, but that he had no money 
when the reckoning was called for; 
nor would the landlord give him any 
more credit) at the “ Garter,” over 
against tlie gate of the Palace, in 
Pall Mall. 

The old Viscountess, indeed, if she 
had done Eunond any wrong former- 
ly, seemed inclined to repair it by the 
present kindness of her behavior : she 
embraced him copiously at parting, 
wept plentifully, bade him write by 
every p icket, and gave him an ines- 
timable relic, which she besought him 
to wear round his neck, — a medal, 
blessed by 1 know not what pope, 
and worn by his late sacred Majesty 
King James. So Esmond arrived at 
his regiment with a better equipage 
than most young officers could afford. 
He was older than most of his seniors, 
and had a further advantage which 
belonged but to very few of the army 
gentlemen in his day, — many of 
whom could do little more than write 
their names, — that he had read much, 
both at home and at the University, 
was m aster of two or three languages, 
and had that further education which 
neither books nor years will give, but 
■which some men get from the silent 
teaching of adversity. She is a great 
schoolmistress, as many a poor fellow 


knows, that hath hold his hand out to 
her ferule, and whimpered over his 
lesson before her awful chair. 

« 

CHAPTER V. 

I GO ON THE VIGO-BAY EXPEDITION, 

TASTE SALT WATEK AND SMELL 

POWDER. 

The first expedition in which Mr. 
Esmond had the honor to be engaged, 
rather resembled one of the invasions 
projected by the redoubted Captain 
Avory or Captain Kid, than a war 
between crowned heads, carried on by 
generals of rank and honor. On the 
1st day of July, 1702, a great fleet, of 
a hunilred and fifty sail, set sail from 
Spithead, under the command of Ad- 
miral Shovcll, having on board 12,- 
000 troops, with his Grace the Duke 
of Ormond as the Capt. -General of 
the expedition. One of these 12,000 
heroes having never been to sea be- 
fore, or, at least, only once in his in- 
fancy, when he made the voyage to 
England from that unknown country 
where he was born, — one of those 
12,000, — the junior ensign of Colonel 
Quin’s regiment of Fusileers, — was 
in a quite unheroic state of corporal 
prostration a few hours after sailing ; 
and an enemy, had he boarded the 
ship, would have had easy work of 
him. From Portsmouth we put into 
Plymouth, and took in fresh reim 
forcements. AVe were off Finisterr? 
on the 31st of July, so Esmond’s ta^ 
ble-book informs him : and on the 8th 
of August made the rock of Lisbon. 
By this time the Ensign was grown 
as bold as an admiral, and a week 
afterwards had the fortune to be un- 
der fii-c for the first time, — and under . 
water, too, — his boat being swamped 
in the surf in Toros Bay, where the 
troops landed. The ducking of his 
new coat was all the harm the young 
soldier got in this expedition, for, in- 
deed, the Spaniards made no stand 
before our troops, and were not in 
strength to do so. 


124 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


But the campaign, if not very glo- 
rious, was very pleasant. New sights 
of nature, by sea and land — a life of 
action beginning now for the first 
time — occupied and excited the 
young man. The many accidents, 
and the routine of shipboard, — the 
military duty, — the new acquaint- 
ances, both of his comrades in arms, 
and of the officers of the fleet, — 
served to cheer and occupy his mind, 
and waken it out of that selfish de- 
pression into which his late unhappy 
fortunes had plunged him. He felt 
as if the ocean separated him from 
his past care, and welcomed the ncAv 
era of life which was dawning for him. 
Wounds heal rapidly in a heart of 
two-and-twenty ; hopes revive daily ; 
and courage rallies in spite of a man. 
Perhaps, as Esmond thought of his 
late despondency and melancholy, 
and liow irremediable it had seemed 
to him, as he lay in his prison a few 
months back, he was almost morti- 
fied in his secret mind at finding him- 
self so cheerful. 

To see with one’s own eyes men 
and countries, is better than reading 
all the books of travel in the world : 
and it was with extreme delight and 
exultation that the young man found 
himself actually on his grand tour, 
and in the view of people and cities 
which he bad read about as a boy. 
He beheld war for the first time, — the 
pride, pomp, and circumstance of it, 
at least, if not much of the danger. 
He saw actually, and with his own 
eyes, those Spanish cavaliers and 
ladies Avhom he had beheld in im- 
agination in that immortal story of 
Cervantes, which had been the de- 
light of his yoixthful leisure. ’T is 
forty years since Mr. Esmond wit- 
nessed those scenes, but they remain 
as fresh in his memory as on the day 
when first he saw tliem as a young 
man. A cloud, as of grief, that had 
lowered over him, and had wrapped 
the l.ist years of his life in gloom, 
seemed to clear away from Esmond 
during this fortunate voyage and 
campaign. His energies seemed to 


awaken and to expand under a cheer- 
ful sense of freedom. Was his heart 
secretly glad to have escaped from 
that fond but ignoble bondage at 
home ? Was it that the inferiority 
to which the idea of his base birth 
had compelled him, vanished with the 
knowledge of that secret, which 
though, perforce, kept to himself, was 
yet enough to cheer and console him ? 
At any rate, young Esmond of the 
army was quite a different being to 
the sad little dependant of the kind 
Casljewood household, and the mel- 
ancholy student of Trinity Walks ; 
discontented with his fate, and with 
the vocation into which ijliat drove 
him, and thinking, with a secret in- 
dignation, that the cassock and bands, 
and the very sacred office with which 
he had once proposed to invest him- 
self, were, in fact, but marks of a 
servitude which was to continue all 
his life long. For, disguise it as he 
might to himself, he had all along 
felt that to be Castlewood’s chaplain 
was to be Castlewood’s inferior still, 
and that his life was but to be a long, 
hopeless servitude. So, indeed, he 
was far from grudging his old friend 
Tom Tusher’s good fortune (as Tom, 
no doubt, thought it). Had it been a 
mitre and Lambeth which his friends 
offered him, and not a small living 
and a country parsonage, he would 
have felt as much a slave in one case 
as in the other, and was quite happy 
and thankful to be free. 

The bravest nxan I ever knew in 
the army, and who had been present 
in most of King William’s actions, as 
well as in the campaigns of the great 
Duke of Marlborough, could never be 
got to tell us of any achievement of 
his, except that once Prince Eugene 
ordered him up a tree to reconnoitre 
the enemy, which feat he could not 
achieve on aecount of the horseman’s 
boots he wore ; and on anotlier day 
that he was very nearly taken pris- 
oner because of these jack-boots, which 
prevented him from running away. 
The present narrator shall imitate 
this laudable reserve, and doth not 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


Intetid to (hvell upon his military ex- 
ploits, which were in truth not very 
clifFercnt from those of a thousand 
otlier gentlemen. This first cam- 
paign of Mr. Esmond’s lasted but a 
few days ; and as a score of books 
have been written concerning it, it 
may be dismissed very briefly here. 

\Yhen our fleet came within view 
of Cadiz, our commander sent a boat 
Avith a white flag and a couple of offi- 
cers to the Governor of Cadiz, Don 
Scipio de Brancaccio, Avith a letter 
from his Grace, in Avhicli he hoped 
that as Don Scipio had formerly 
served Avith the Austrians against the 
French, ’t was to be hoped that his 
Excellency Avould noAV declare him- 
self against the French king, and for 
the Austrian in the Avar betAveen King 
Philip and King Charles. But his 
Excellency, Don Scipio, prepared a 
reply, in Avhich he announced that, 
having served his former king Avith 
honor and fidelity, he hoped to ex- 
hibit the same loyalty and devotion 
tOAvards his present sovereign. King 
Philip V. ; and by the time this letter 
was ready, the officers, — Avho had 
been taken to see the toAvn, and the 
alameda, and the theatre, Avhere bull- 
fights are fought, and the convents, 
Avhere the admirable Avorks of Don 
Bartholomew Murillo inspired one of 
them Avith a great Avonder and delight 
— such as he had never felt before — 
concerning this di\’ine art of paint- 
ing ; and these sights over, and a 
handsome refection and chocolate be- 
ing served to the English gentlemen, 
they Avere accompanied back to their 
shallop Avith every courtesy, and Avere 
the only tAvo officers of the English 
army that saAV at that time that fa- 
mous city. 

The general tried the power of an- 
other proclamation on the Spaniards, 
in which he announced that Ave only 
came in tlic interest of Spain and 
King Charles, and for ourselves 
Avanted to make no conquest nor set- 
tlement in Spain at all. But all this 
eloquence Avas lost upon the Span- 
iards, it Avould seem: the Captain- 


General of Andalusia would no more 
listen to us than the Governor of Ca- 
diz ; and in reply to his Grace’s 
proclamation, the Marquis of Villa- 
darias fii’cd off another, Avhich those 
Avho kncAV the Spanish thought rather 
the best of the two ; and of this num- 
ber Avas Harry Esmond, Avhose kind 
Jesuit in old days had instructed him, 
and noAV had the honor of ti'an slating 
for his Grace these hai'mless docu- 
ments of Avar. There Avas a hard 
touch for his Grace, and, indeed, for 
other generals in her Majesty’s ser- 
vice, in the concluding sentence of 
the Don : “ That he and his council 
had the generous example of their an- 
cestors to folloAV, Avho had never yet 
sought their elevation in the blood or 
in the flight of their kings. ‘Mori 
pro patria ’ Avas his device, Avhich the 
Duke might communicate to the Prin- 
cess Avho governed England.” 

Whether the troops Avere angry at 
this repartee or no, ’t is certain some- 
thing put them in a fury ; for, not 
being able to get possession of Cadiz, 
our people seized upon Port Saint 
Mary’s and sacked it, burning doAvn 
the merchants’ storehouses, getting 
drunk Avith the famous Avines there, 
pillaging and robbing quiet houses 
and coiwents, murdering and doing 
AAmrse. And ' the only blood Avhich 
Mr. Esmond drcAV in this shameful 
campaign, aa'US the knocking down 
an English sentinel Avith a half-pike, 
Avho was offering insult to a poor 
trembling nun. Is she going to turn 
out a beauty ? or a princess 1 or per- 
haps Esmond’s mother that he had 
lost and never seen 1 Alas no, it Avas 
but a poor Avheezy old dropsical 
Avoman, Avith a AA'art upon her nose. 
But having been early taught a part 
of the Roman religion, he never had 
the horror of it that some Protestants 
have shoAvn, and seem to think to be 
a part of ours. 

After the pillage and plunder of 
St. Mary’s, and an assault upon a 
fort or tAV'O, the troops all took ship- 
ping, and finished tlieir expedition, at 
any rate, more brilliantly than it had 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


bcfjun. Hearing that the French 
fleet with a great treasure was in Vigo 
Bay , our Admirals, Rooke and Hopson 
pursued the enemy thither ; the 
trooj)S landed and carried the forts 
that protected the bay, Hopson pass- 
ing the boom first on board his ship 
the “ Torbay,” and the rest of the 
ships, English and Dutch, following 
him. Twenty ships were burned or 
taken in the Port of lledondilla, and 
a vast deal more plunder than was 
ever accounted for ; but poor men 
before that expedition were rich 
afterwards, and so often was it found 
and remarked that the Vigo officers 
came home with pockets full of 
money, that the notorious Jack 
Shafto, who made such a figure at 
the coffee-houses and gaming-tables 
in London, and gave out that he had 
been a soldier at Vigo, owned, when 
he was about to be hanged, that 
Bagshot Heath had been Ins Vigo, 
and that he only spoke of La Kcdon- 
dilla to turn away people’s eyes from 
the real place where the booty lay. 
Indeed, Hounslow or Vigo, — which 
matters much'? The latter was a 
bad business, though Mr. Addison 
did sing its praises in Latin. That 
honest gentleman’s muse had an eye 
to the main chance ; and I doubt 
whether she saw much inspiration in 
the losing side. 

Bift though Esmond, for his part, 
got no share of this fabulous booty, 
one great prize which he had out of 
the campaign was, that excitement 
of action and change of scene, which 
shook off a great deal of his previous 
melancholy. He learnt at any rate 
to bear his fate cheerfully. He 
brought back a browned face, a heart 
resolute enough, and a little pleasant 
store of knowledge and observation, 
from that expedition, which was over 
with the autumn, when the troops 
were back in England again ; and Es- 
mond giving up his post of secretary 
to General Lumley, whose command 
was over, and jiarting with that officer 
with many kind ex])ressions of good- 
will on the General’s side, had leave 


to go to London, to see if he could 
push his fortunes in any way further, 
and found himself once more in his 
dowager aunt’s comfortable quarters 
at Cbelsey, and in greater favor than 
ever with the old lady. He projiiti- 
ated her with a present of a coml), a 
fan, and a black mantle, such as the 
ladies of Cadiz wear, and which my 
Lady Viscountess pronounced became 
her Style of beauty mightily. And 
she was greatly edified at hearing of 
that story of his rescue of the nun, 
and felt very little doubt but that her 
King James’s relic, which he had al- 
ways dutifully Avorn in his desk, had 
kept him out of danger, and averted 
the shot of the enemy. My Lady 
made feasts lor him, introduced him 
to more company, and pushed his for- 
tunes with such enthusiasm and suc- 
cess, that she got a promise of a com- 
! jtany for him through the Lady Marl-' 
borough’s interest, who was gracious- 
ly pleased to accept of a diamond 
worth a couple of hundred guineas, 
Avhich Mr, Esmond was enabled to 
present to her Ladyship through his 
aunt’s bounty, and Avho promised that 
she Avould take charge of Esmond’s 
fortune. He had the honor to make 
his appearance at the Queen’s drawing- 
room occasionally, and to frequent my 
Lord Marlborough’s levees. That 
great man received the young one 
with very especial favor, so Esmond’s 
comrades said, and deigned to say 
that he had received the best reports 
of Mr. Esmond, both for courage and 
ability, Avhereon you may be sure the 
young gentleman made a profound 
bow, and expressed himself eager to 
serve under the most distinguished 
captain in the Avorld. 

Whilst bis business Avas going on 
thus prosperously, Esmond had his 
share of pleasure too, and made his 
appearance along Avith other young 
gentlemen at the coffee-houses, the 
theatres, and the Mall. He longed to 
hear of his dear mistress and her 
family : many a time, in the midst of 
the gayeties and pleasures of the tOAvn, 
his heart fondly reverted to them ; 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


127 


and often as the young fellows of his 
society were making merry at tlie 
tavern, and calling toasts (as the 
firshion of that day was) over their 
Avine, Esmond thought of persons — 
of two fair women, whom he had been 
used to adore almost, and emptied his 
glass Avitli a sigh. 

Hy this time the elder Viscountess 
had grown tired again of the younger, 
and Avhenever she spoke of my Lord’s 
widow, ’t Avas in terms by no means 
complimentary towards that poor 
lady : the younger woman not need- 
ing her protection any longer, the 
elder abused her. ^lost of the family 
quarrels that I have seen in life (saA'- 
ing ahvays those arising from money- 
disputes, Avhdn a division of tAvopence 
halfpenny will often drive the dearest ! 
relatives into Avar and estrangement ) 
spring out of jealousy and envy. 
Jack and Tom, born of the same 
family and to the same fortune, live 
very cordially together, not until 
Jack is ruined Avhen Tom deserts 
Irim, but until Tom makes a sudden 
rise in prosperity, which Jack can’t 
forgive. Ten times to one ’t is the 
unprosperous man that is angry, not 
the other Avho is in fault. ’T is Mrs. 
Jack, Avho can only afford a chair, 
that sickens at Mrs. Tom’s neAvcoach- 
and-six, cries out against her sister’s 
airs, and sets her husband against his 
brother. ’T is Jack Avho sees his 
brother shaking hands Avith a lord 
(with Avhom Jack would like to ex- 
change snuff-boxes himself), that goes 
home and tells his Aviie Iioav poor 
Tom is spoiled, he fears, and no bet- 
ter than a sneak, parasite, and beggar 
on horseback. I remember how 
furious the coffee-house Avits Avere 
Avith Dick Steele Avhen ho set up his 
coach and fine house in Bloomsbury : 
they began to forgive him Avhen the 
bailiffs Avere after him, and abused Mr. 
Addison for selling Dick’s country- 
house. And yet Dick in the spong- 
ing-house, or Dick in the Park, Avith 
his four mares and plated harness, 
Avas exactly the same gentle, kindly, 
improvident, jovial Dick Steele : 


and yet Mr. Addison Avas perfectly 
right in getting the money Avhicli Avas 
his, and not giving up the amount of 
his just claim, to be spent by Dick 
upon champagne and fiddlers, laced 
clothes, fine furniture, and parasites, 
JeAv and Christian, male and female, 
Avho clung to him. As, according to 
the famous maxim of Monsieur de 
Kochefbucault, “ in our friends’ mis' 
fortunes there ’s something secretly 
pleasant to us ” ; so, on the other 
hand, their good fortune is disagree- 
able. If ’t is hard for a man to bear 
his own good luck, ’t is harder still 
for his friends to bear it for him ; and 
but feAv of them ordinarily can stand 
that trial : Avhereas one of the “ pre- 
cious uses ” of adversity is, that it is a 
great reconciler ; that it brings back 
averted kindness, disarms animosity, 
and causes yesterday’s enemy to fling 
his hatred aside, and hold out a hand 
to the fallen friend of old days. 
There ’s pity and love, as Avell as 
envy, in the same heart and toAvards 
the same person. The rivalry stops 
Avhen the competitor tumbles ; and, as 
I vicAV it, Avc should look at these 
agreeable and disagreeable qualities 
of our humanity humbly alike. They 
are consequent and natural, and our 
kindness and meanness both manly. 

So you may either read the sentence, 
that the elder of Esmond’s tAvo kins- 
Avomen pardoned the younger her 
beauty, Avhen that had lost somewhat 
of its freshness, perhaps ; and forgot 
most her grievances against the other, 
Avhen the subject of them was no 
longer prosperous and enviable ; or 
Ave may say more benevolently (but 
the sum comes to the same figures, 
AA'orked either AAuiy), that Isabella re- 
pented of her unkindness tOAvards 
Rachel, Avhen Rachel Avas unluippy ; 
and, bestirring herself in behalf of the 
poor AvidoAv and her children, gaAm 
them shelter and friendship. The 
ladies Avere quite good friends as long 
as the Aveaker one needed a protector ; 
Before Esmond Avent aAvay on his first 
campaign, his mistress Avas still on 
terms of friendship (though a poor 


128 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


little chit, a woman.that had evidently 
no spirit in her, &c.) with the elder 
Lady Castlcvvood ; and Mistress Bea- 
trix was allowed to he a beauty. 

But between the first year of Queen 
Anne’s reign, and the second, sad 
changes for the Avorse had taken place 
in the two younger ladies, at least in 
the elder’s description of them. Ra- 
chel, Viscountess Castlewood, had no 
more face than a dumpling, and Mrs. 
Beatrix was groAvn quite coarse, and 
was losing all her beauty. Little Lord 
Blandford (she never would call 
him Lord Blandford ; his father was 
Lord Churchill, — the King, Avhom 
he betrayed, had made him Lord 
Churchill, and he Avas Lord Churchill 
still) might be making eyes at her; 
but his mother, that Aixen of a Sarah 
Jennings, Avould never hear of such a 
folly. Lady Marlborough had got 
her to be the maid of honor at court 
to the Princess, but she would repent 
of it. The AvidoAv Franeis (she Avas 
but Mrs. Francis Esmond) Avas a 
scheming, artful, heartless hussy. She 
was spoiling her brat of a boy, and 
she would end by marrying her chap- 
lain. 

“ What, Tusher ! ” cried Mr. Es- 
mond, feeling a strange pang of rage 
and astonishment. 

“ Yes, — Tusher, my maid’s son ; 
and Avho has got all the qualities of 
his father the lackey in black, and 
his accomplished mamma the Avaiting- 
Avoman,” cries my Lady. “ What do 
you suppose that a sentimental AvidoAV, 
Avho Avill live doAvn in that dingy dun- 
geon of a CastlcAVOod, Avhere she spoils 
her boy, kills the poor Avith her drugs, 
has prayers tAvice a day and sees no- 
body but the chaplain, — Avhat do you 
suppose she can do, mon Cousin, but 
let the horrid parson, Avith his great 
square toes and hideous little green 
eyes, make love to her ? Cela e’est 
vu, mon Cousin. When I Avas a girl 
at CastlcAvood, all the chaplains fell 
in loA'c Avith me, — they ’ve nothing 
else to do.” 

]My Lady AA^cnt on Avith more talk 
of this kind, thougli, in truth, Esmond 


had no idea of Avbat she said further, 
so entirely did her first Avords occupy 
his thought. Were they true ? Not 
all, nor half, nor a tenth part of Avhat 
the garrulous old Avoman said, Avas 
true. Could this be so 1 No car had 
Esmond for anything else, though his 
patroness chatted on for an hour. 

Some young gentlemen of the town, 
Avith whom Esmond had made ac- 
quaintance, had promised to present 
him to that most charming of actresses, 
and lively and agreeable of Avomen, 
Mrs. Bracegirdle, about Avhom Harry’s 
old adversary Mohun had draAvn 
SAvords, a few years before my poor 
lord and he fell out. The famous Mr. 
Congreve had stamped with high ap- 
proval, to the Avliich there Avas no gain- 
saying, this delightful person : and 
she Avas acting in Dick ISteele’s com- 
edies, and finally, and for tAv^enty-four 
hours after beholding her, Mr. Esmond 
felt himself, or thought himself, to 
be as violently enamored of this loA'ely 
brunette, as Avere a thousand other 
young fellows about the city. To 
have once seen her Avas to long to be- 
hold her again ; and to be offered the 
delightful privilege of her acquaint- 
ance, Avas a pleasure the very idea of 
AAdiich set the young lieutenant’s heart 
on fire. A man cannot live Avith com- 
rades under the tents Avithout finding 
out that he too is five-and-tAA*enty. A 
young felloAV cannot be cast doAvn by 
grief and misfortune ever so severe 
but some night he begins to sleep 
sound, and some day Avhen dinner- 
time comes to feel hungry for a beef- 
steak. Time, youth and good health, 
ncAV scenes and the excitement of ac- 
tion and a campaign, had pretty aa cII 
brought Esmond’s mourning to an 
end ; and his comrades said that Don 
Dismal, as they called him, Avas Don 
Dismal no more. So Avhen a ])arty 
Avas made to dine at the “ Rose,” and 
go to the playhouse aftcrAvard, Es- 
mond Avas as pleased as another to 
take his share of the bottle and the play. 

Hoav Avas it that the old aunt’s 
neAvs, or it might be scandal, about 
Tom Tusher, caused such a strange 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


129 


and sudden excitement in Tom’s old 
plajfclIoAV "? Had n’t he sworn a 
thousand times in his own mind that 
the Lady of Castlewood, who had 
treated him with such kindness once, 
and then had left him so cruelly, was, 
and was to remain henceforth, indif- 
ferent to him forever 1 Had his pride 
and his sense of justice not long 
since helped him to cure the pain of 
that desertion, — was it even a pain to 
him now? Why, but last night as 
he walked across the fields and mead- 
ows to Chelsey from Pall Mall, had 
he not composed two or three stanzas 
of a song, celebrating Bracegirdle’s 
brown eyes, and declaring them a 
thousand times more beautiful than 
the brightest blue ones that ever lan- 
guished under the lashes of an insipid 
fair beauty ! But Tom Tusher ! 
Tom Tusher, the waiting-woman’s 
son, raising up his little eyes to his 
mistress ! Tom Tusher presuming to 
think of Castlewood’s widow. Rage 
and contempt filled Mr. Harry’s heart 
at the very notion ; the honor of the 
family, of which he was the chief, 
made it his duty to prevent so mon- 
strous an alliance, and to chastise the 
upstart who could dare to think of 
such an insult to their house. ’T is 
true Mr. Esmond often boasted of 
republican principles, and could re- 
member many fine speeches he had 
made at eollej^ and elsewhere, with 
icorth and not birth for a text : but Tom 
Tusher to take the place of the noble 
Castlewood, — faugh ! ’t was as mon- 
strous as King Hamlet’s widow taking 
off her weeds for Claudius. Esmond 
laughed at all widows, all wives, all 
v/omen ; and were the banns about to 
be published, as no doubt they were, 
that very next Sunday at Walcote 
Church, Esmond swore that he would 
be present to shout No ! in the face of 
the congregation, and to take a private 
revenge upon the ears of the bride- 
groom. 

Instead of going to dinner then at 
the “ Rose ” that night, Mr. Esmond 
bade his servant pack a portmanteau 
and get horses, and was at Earnham, 
6 * 


half-way on the road to 'Walcote, 
thirty miles off, before his comrades 
had got to their supper after the play. 
He bade his man give no hint to my 
Lady Dowager’s household of the 
expedition on which he was going : 
and as Chelsey was distant from Lon- 
don, the roads bad, and infested by 
footpads, and Esmond often in the 
habit, when engaged in a party of 
pleasure, of lying at a friend’s lodging 
in town, there was no need that his 
old aunt should be disturbed at his 
absence, — indeed, nothing more de- 
lighted the old lady than to fancy 
that mon Cousin, the incorrigible 
young sinner, was abroad boxing the 
watch, or scouring St. Giles’s. When 
she was not at her books of devotion, 
she thought Etheridge and Sedley 
very good reading. She had a hun- 
dred pretty stories about Rochester, 
Harry Jermyn, and Hamilton ; and 
if Esmond would but have run away 
with the wife even of a citizen, ’t is 
my belief she Avould have pawned her 
diamonds (the best of them went to 
our Lady of Chaillot) to pay his 
damages. 

My Lord’s little house of Walcote 
— which he inhabited before he took 
his title and occupied the house at 
Castlewood — lies about a mile from 
Winchester, and his widow had re- 
turned to Walcote after my Lord’s 
death as a place always dear to her, 
and where her earliest and happiest 
days had been spent, cheerfuller than 
Castlewood, which was too large for 
her straitened means, and giving her, 
too, the protection of the ex-dean, 
her father. The young Viscount had 
a year’s schooling at the famous col- 
lege there, Avith Mr. Tusher as his 
governor. So much news of them 
Mr. Esmond had had during the past 
year from the old Viscountess, his 
own father’s widow ; from the young 
one there had never been a word. 

Twice or thrice in his benefactor’s 
lifetime, Esmond had been to Wal- 
cote ; and now, taking but a couple 
of hours’ rest only at the inn on the 
road, he was up again long before 
I 


130 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


daybreak, and made such good speed 
that he was at Walcotc by two o’clock 
of the day. He rid to the end of the 
village, Avhere he alighted and sent a 
man thence to Mr. Tusher, with a 
message that a gentleman from Lon- 
don would speak with him on urgent 
business. The messenger came back 
to say the Doctor was in town, most 
likely at prayers in the Cathedral. 
My Lady Viseountess was there, too ; 
she always went to Cathedral prayers 
every day. 

The horses belonged to the 
post-house at Winchester. Esmond 
mounted again and rode on to the 
“ George ” ; whence he walked, leav- 
ing his grumbling domestic at last 
happy with a dinner, straight to the 
Catliedral. The organ was playing : 
the winter’s day was already growing 
gray : as he passed under the street- 
arch into the Cathedral yard, and 
made his way into the aneient solemn 
edifice. 

— • 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE 29th DECEMBER. 

There was scarce a score of per- 
sons in the Cathedral beside the 
Dean and some of his clergy, and the 
choristers, yotmg and old, that per- 
formed the beautiful evening prayer. 
But Dr. Tusher was one of the of- 
ficiants, and read from the eagle in 
an authoritative voice, and a great 
black periwig ; and in the stalls, still 
in her black widow’s hood, sat Es- 
mond’s dear mistress, her son by her 
side, very much grown, and indeed a 
noble-looking youth, with his moth- 
er’s eyes, and his father’s curling 
brown hair, that fell over his point de 
Venise , — a pretty picture such as 
Vandyke might have painted. Mons. 
Rigaud’s portrait of my Lord Vis- 
count, done at Paris afterwards, gives 
but a French version of his manly, 
frank, English face. When lie lookeil 
up there Avere two sapphire beams 
out of his eyes such as no painter’s 
palette has the cp'or to matcli, I 


think. On this day there was not 
much chance of seeing that particu- 
lar beauty of my young lord’s counte- 
nance; for the truth is, he kept his 
eyes shut for the most part, and, the 
anthem being rather long, Avas asleep. 

But the music ceasing, my Lord 
Avoke up, looking about him, and his 
eyes lighting on Mr. Esmond, Avho 
Avas sitting opposite him, gazing Avith 
no small tenderness and melancholy 
upon tAvo ])crsons Avho had so much 
of his heart for so many years, Lord 
Castlewood, Avith a start, pulled at 
his mother’s sleeve (her face had 
scarcely been lifted from her book), 
and said, “ Look, mother ! ” so loud, 
that Esmond could liear on the other 
side of the church, and the old Dean 
on his throned stall. Lady Castle- 
Avood looked for an instant as her son 
bade her, and held up a Avarning 
finger to Frank ; Esmond felt bis 
Avhole face flush, and his heart throb- 
bing, as that dear lady beheld him once 
more. The rest of the prayers Averc 
speedily OA^er ; Mr. Esmond did not 
hear them ; nor did his mistress, 
A'ery likely, Avhose hood AAcnt more 
closely over her face, and avIio never 
lifted her head again until the service 
Avas over, the blessing given, and Mr. 
Dean, and his procession of ecclesi- 
astics, out of the inner chapel. 

Young CastlcAvood came clamber- 
ing oA'er the stalls before the clergy 
Avere fairly gone, and running u]) to 
Esmond, eagerly embraced him. 
“ My dear, dearest old Harry ! ” lie 
said, “are- you come back? Ha\'e 
you been to the Avars ? You ’ll take 
me Avith you Avhen you go again ? 
Why did n’t you Avrite to us ? Come 
to mother.” 

Mr. Esmond could hardl}’^ say more 
than a “ God bless you, my boy,” for 
his heart Avas A-ery full and grateful 
at all this tenderness on the lad’s 
part ; and he Avas as much moved at 
seeing Frank as he Avas fearful about 
that other intervicAv Avhich Avas iioav 
to take place ; for he kncAv not if the 
AvidoAv Avould reject him as she had 
done so cruelly a year ago. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


131 


“ It was kind of you to come back 
to us, Henry,” Lady Esmond said. 
“I thought you might come.” 

“ We read of the fleet coming to 
Portsmouth. Why did you not come 
from Portsmouth? ” Frank asked, or 
my Lord Viscount, as he now must 
be called. 

Esmond had thought of that too. 
He would have given one of his eyes 
so that he might see his dear friends 
again once more ; but believing that 
liis mistress had forbidden him her 
house, he had obeyed her, and re- 
mained at a distance. 

“ You had but to ask, and you 
knew I would be here,” he said. 

She gave him her hand, her little 
fair hand ; there was only her mar- 
riage ring on it. The quarrel was 
all over. The year of grief and es- 
trangement was passed. They never 
had been separated. His mistress 
had never been out of his mind all 
that time. No, not once. No, not in 
the prison ; nor in the camp ; nor on 
shore before the enemy; nor at sea 
under the stars of solemn midnight ; 
nor as he watched the glorious rising 
of the dawn : not even at the table, 
where he sat carousing with friends, 
or at the theatre yonder, where he 
tried to fancy that other eyes were 
brighter than hers. Brighter eyes 
there might be, and faces more beau- 
tiful, but none so dear, — no voice so 
sweet as that of his beloved mistress, 
who had been sister, mother, goddess 
to him during his youth, — goddess 
now no more, for he knew of her 
Aveaknesses ; and by thought, by suf- 
fering, and that experience it brings, 
Avas older noAV than she; but more 
fondly cherished as Avoman perhaps 
than ever she had been adored as 
divinity. What is it? Where lies 
it ? the secret Avhich makes one little 
hand the dearest of all? Whoever 
can unriddle that mptery? Here 
she Avas, her son by his side, his dear 
boy. Here -she was, Aveeping and 
luqjpy. She took his hand in both 
hers ; he felt her tears. It was a rap- 
ture of reconciliation. i 


“ Here comes Squaretocs,” says 
Frank. “Here’s Tushcr.” 

Tusher, indeed, now appeared, 
creaking on his great lieels. Mr. 
Tom had divested himself of his alb 
or surplice, and came forward habited 
in his cassock and great black peri- 
Avig. How had Esmond ever been 
for a moment jealous of this fellow ? 

“ Give us thy hand, Tom Tusher,” 
he said. The chaplain made him a 
very low and stately boAv. “ I am 
charmed to see Captain Esmond,” 
says he. “ My Lord and I have read 
the lieddas incolumem precor, and ap- 
plied it, I am sure, to you. You 
come back with Gaditanian laurels; 
Avhen I heard you were bound thither, 
I Avished, I am sure, I Avas another 
Septimius. My Lord Viscount, your 
Lordship remembers Septimi, Gades 
aditure mecum f ” 

“ There ’s an angle of earth that I 
love better than Gades, Tusher,” says 
Mr. Esmond. “ ’T is that one Avhere 
your Reverence hath a parsonage, and 
Avhere our youth Avas brought up.” 

“A house that has so many sacred 
recollections to me,” says Mr. Tusher 
(and Harry remembered hoAV Tom’s 
father used to flog him there), — “a 
house near to that of my respected 
patron, my most honored patroness, 
must ever be a dear abode to me. 
But, madam, the verger Avaits to 
close the gates on your Ladyship.” 

“ And Harry ’s coming home to 
supper. Huzzay ! huzzay ! ” cries 
my Lord. “Mother, I shall run 
home and bid Beatrix put her rib- 
bons on. Beatrix is a maid of honor, 
Harry. Sueh a fine set-up minx ! ” 

“ Your heart Avas never in the 
Chureh, Harry,” the widoAV said, in 
her SAveet, lovv tone, as they Avalked 
away together. ( Noav, it seemed they 
had never been parted, and again, as 
if they had been ages asunder. ) “ I 

always thought you had no vocation 
that Avay ; and that ’t Avas a pity to 
shut you out from the Avorld. You 
AA’ould but have pined and chafed at 
Castlewood : and ’t is better you 
should make a name for yourself. I 


132 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


often said so to my dear lord, ITow 
he loved you ! was ttiy Lord that 
made you stay with us.” 

“ I asked no better than to stay 
near you always,” said Mr. Esmond. 

“But to 1:0 was best, Harry. 
When the world cannot give peace, 
you will know where to find it; but 
one of your strong imagination and 
eager desires must try the world first 
before he tires of it. ’T was not to 
be thought of, or if it once was, it 
was only by my selfishness, that you 
should remain as cha[)lain to a coun- 
try gentleman aud tutor to a little 
boy. You arc of the blood of the 
Esmonds, kinsman ; and that was 
always wild in youth. Look at Fran- 
cis, He is but fifteen, and I scarce 
can keep him in my nest. His talk 
is all of war and pleasure, and he 
longs to serve in the next campaign. 
Perhaps he and the young Lord 
Churchill shall go the next. Lord 
Marlborough has been good to us. 
Y^ou know how kind they were in my 
misfortune. And so was your — 
3'our father’s widow. No one knows 
how good the world is, till grief comes 
to try us. ’T is through my Lady 
Marlborough’s goodness that Beatrix 
hath her place at Court ; and Frank 
is under my Lord Chamberlain. And 
the dowager lady, your father’s wid- 
ow, has premised to provide for you, 
— has she not 1 ” 

Esmond said, “Yes. As far as 
present favor went. Lady Casrlewood 
was very good to him. And should 
her mind change,” he added gayly, 

“ as ladies’ minds will, I am strong 
enough to bear my own burden, and 
make my Avay somehow. Not l\y the 
sword very likely. Thousands have 
a. better genius for that than I, but 
Shore are many ways in which a young 
man of good parts and education can 
get on in the world ; and I am ))retty 
sure, one way or other, of promo- ! 
tion ! ” Indeed, he had found patrons 
already in the army, and amongst [ 
persons very able to serve him, too ; ! 
nnd told his mistress of the flattering 
aspect of fortune. They walked as i 


though they had never been parted, 
slowly, wiiii the gray twilight closing 
round them. 

“ And now we are drawing near to 
home,” she cominued, “ I knew you 
woidd come, Harry, if — if itv/as but 
to forgive me for liaving spoken un- 
justly to you after that horrid — 
horrid misfortune. I was half frantic 
with grief then when I saw you. 
And I know now — they have told 
me. That wretch, whose name I can 
never mention, even has said it : how 
you tried to avert the quarrel, and 
would have taken it on yourself, my 
poor child : but it was God’s Avill that 
I should be punished, and that my 
dear lord should fall.” 

“ He gaA'e me his blessing on his 
death-bed,” Esmond said. “ Thank 
God for that legacy ! ” 

“ Amen, amen ! dear Henry,” said 
the lady, pressing his arm. “ I knew 
it. Mr. Atterbury, of St. Bride’s, 
who was called to him, told me so. 
And I thanked God, too, and in my 
prayers ever since remembered it.” 

“ You had spared me many a bitter 
night, had you told me sooner,” Mr. 
Esmond said. 

“I know it, I knoAv it,” she an- 
swered, in a tone of such sweet 
humility, as made Esmond repent that 
he should ever have dared to reproach 
her. “ I know how wicked my heart 
has been ; and I have suftered too, 
my dear. I confessed to Mr. Atter- 
bury — I must not tell any more. 
He — I said I would not write to you 
or go to you, — and it was better even 
that, having parted, we should ])art. 
But I knew you would come back, — 
I own that. 'I’hat is no one’s fault. 
And to-day, Henry, in the anthem, 
when they sang it, ‘ When the Lord 
turned the captivity of Zion, Ave Avere 
like them that dream,’ I thought, 
yes, like them that dream — them that 
dream. And then it AA^nt, ‘ They 
that soAV in tears shall reap in joy'; 
and he that goeth forth and Aveepeth 
sliall doubtless come home again Avith 
rejoicing, bringing his sheaves Avith 
him ’ ; 1 looked up from the book, and 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


133 


saw you. I was not surprised when I 
saw you. I knew you would come, 
my dear, and saw the gold sunshine 
round your head.” 

She smiled an almost wild smile as 
she looked np at him. The moon 
was up by this time, glittering keen 
in the frosty sky. He could see, for 
the first time now clearly, her sweet 
careworn face. 

“ Do you know what day it is 1 ” 
she continued. “It is the 29th of 
December, — it is your birthday! 
But last year we did not drink it, — 
no, no. !\Iy Lord was cold, and my 
Harry was likely to die : and my 
brain was in a fever ; and we had no 
wine. But now — now you are come 
again, bringing your sheaves with 
yon, my dear.” She burst into a 
wiki flood of weeping as she spoke ; 
she laughed and sobbed on the young 
man’s heart, crying out wildly, 
“bringing your sheaves with you — 
your sheaves with you ! ” 

As he had sometimes felt, gazing 
up from the deck at midnight into 
the boundless starlit depths overhead, 
in a rapture of devout wonder at that 
endless brightness and beauty, — in 
some such a way now, the depth of 
this pure devotion (which was, for 
the first time, revealed to him) quite 
smote upon hiift, and filled his heart 
with thanksgiving. Gracious God, 
who was he, weak and friendless 
creature, that such a love should be 
poured out upon him 1 Not in vain 
— not in vain has he lived — hard 
and thankless should he be to think 
so — that has such a treasure given 
him. What is ambition compared to 
that, but selflsh vanity ? To be rich, 
to be famous 1 What do these profit 
a year hence, when other names sound 
louder than yours, when you lie hid- 
den away under the ground, along 
with idle titles engraven on your 
cofiin ? But only true love liv'es after 
you, — follows your memory with 
secret blessing, — or precedes you, 
and intercedes for you. Non omnis 
mnriar — if dying, 1 yet live in a 
tender heart or two ; nor am lost and 


ho])eless living, if a sainted departed 
soul still loves and prays for me. 

“If — if ’tis so, dear lady,” Mr. 
Esmond said, “ why should I ever 
leave you'? If God hath given me 
this great boon, — and near or far 
from me, as I know now, the heart 
of my dearest mistress follows me, 
let me have that blessing near me, 
nor ever part with it till death sepa- 
rate ns. Come away, — leave this 
Europe, this ])lace which has so many 
sad recollections for you. Begin a 
new life in a new world. My good 
Lord often talked of visiting that land 
in Virginia which King Charles gave 
us — gave his ancestor. Frank will 
{ give us that. No man there will ask 
if there is a blot on my name, or in- 
quire in the woods what my title 
• >> 

IS. 

“ And my children, — and my 
duty, — and my good father, Hen- 
j ry '? ” she broke out. “ He has none 
I but me now ! for soon my sister will 
; leave him, and the old man will be 
alone. He has conformed since the 
new Queen’s reign ; and here in 
, Winchester, where they love him, 
they have found a church for him. 
When the children leave me, I will 
stay with him. I cannot follow them 
into the great world, where their way 
lies, — it scares me. d’hey will come 
and visit me ; and you will, some- 
times, Henry, — yes, sometimes, as 
now, in the Holy Advent season, 
when I have seen and blessed you 
once more.” 

“ I would leaA'e all to follow you,” 
said Mr. Esmond ; “ and can you not 
be as generous for mo, dear lady ? ” 

“ Hush, boy ! ” she said, and it was 
with a mother’s sweet plaintive tone 
and look that she spoke. “ The 
world is beginning for you. For me, 
I have been so weak and sinful that I 
must leave it, and prav out an ex- 
piation, dear Henry. Had we houses 
of religion as there were once, and 
many divines of our Church would 
have them again, I often think I 
would retire to one and pass my life 
in 2 >cnance. But I would love you 


134 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


still, — yes, there is no sin in such a 
love as mine now ; and my dear lord 
in heaven may see my lieart ; and 
knows the tears that have washed 
my sin away, — and now — now my 
duty is here, by my children Avhilst 
they need me, and by my poor old 
father, and — 

“ And not by me ? ” Henry said. 

“ Hush ! she said again, and 
raised her hand up to his lip. “ 1 
have been your nurse. Y"ou could 
not see me, Harry, when yon were in 
the small-pox, and 1 came and sat by 
you. Ah ! 1 prayed that I might 
die, but it would have been in sin, 
Henry. O, it is horrid to look back 
to that time. It is over now and 
past, and it has been Ibrgiven* me. 
AVhen you need me again, 1 will 
come ever so far. When your heart 
is wounded, then come to me, my 
clear. Be silent ! let me say.all. You 
never loved me, dear Henry, — no, 
you do not now, and I thank Heaven 
for it. I used to watch you, and 
knew by a thousand signs that it was 
so. Do you rcmemlicr how glad you 
were to go away to college ? 'T was 
I sent you. I told my papa that, 
and Mr. Atterbury too, when I spoke 
to him in London. And they both 
gave me absolution, — both, — and 
they are godly men, having authority 
to bind and to loose. And they for- 
gave me, as my dear lord forgave me 
before he went to heaven. '' 

“ I think the angels are not all in 
heaven,” Mr. Esmond said. And as 
a brother folds a sister to his heart ; 
and as a mother cleaves to her son’s 
breast, — so for a few moments Es- 
mond’s beloved mistress came to him 
and blessed him. 

« — 

CHAPTER VII. 

I AM MADE WELCOME AT WALCOTE. 

As they came up to the house at 
AYalcote, the Avindows from Avithin 
AA'ere lighted up Avith friendly welcome ; 
the supper-table was spread“in the oak- 


parlor ; it seemed as if forgiA^eness and 
love AA'crc aAvaiting the returning prod- 
igal. Tavo or three familiar faces of 
domestics Avere on the lookout at the 
porch, — the old housekeeper Avas 
there, and young LockAvood from Cas- 
tlcAvood in my Lord’s lively of taAvny 
and blue. His dear mistress pressed 
his arm as they passed into the hall. 
Her eyes beamed out on him Avith af- 
fection indescribable. “ Welcome,” 
Avas all she said, as she looked up, 
putting back her fair curls and black 
hood. A SAvcct rosy smile blushed 
on her face; Plarry thought he had 
never seen her look so charming. Her 
face Avas lighted Avith a joy that Avas 
brighter tlian beauty, — she took a 
hand of her son Avho Avas in the hall 
Avaiting his mother, — she did not quit 
Esmond’s arm. 

“ Welcome, Harry ! ” my young 
lord echoed after her. “ Here, Ave are 
all come to say so. Here ’s old Pincot, 
has n’t she groAvn handsome 1 ” and 
Pincot, Avho Avas older, and no hand- 
somer than usual, made a courtesy to 
the Captain, as she called Esmopd, 
and told my Lord to “ Have done, 
noAv.” 

“ And here ’s Jack Lockwood. He ’ll 
make a famous grenadier. Jack ; and 
so shall I ; Ave ’ll both ’list under you, 
Cousin. As soon as I am scA^enteen, 
I go to the army, — every gentleman 
goes to the army. Look ! Avho comes 
here, — ho, ho ! ” he burst into a laugh. 
“ ’T is Mistress ’Trix, Avith a ucav rib- 
bon ; I kneAv she Avould put one on as 
soon as she heard a Captain Avas com- 
ing to supper.” 

This laughing colloquy took place 
in the hall of Walcote House ; in the 
midst of Avhich is a staircase that leads 
from an open gallery, Avhere are the 
doors of the sleeping-chambers : and 
from one of these, a Avax candle in her 
hand, and illuminating her, came Mis- 
tress Beatrix, — the light falling indeed 
upon the scarlet ribbon Avhich she 
AADrc, and upon the most brilliant 
Avhite neck in the Avorld. 

Esmond had left a child and found a 
Avoman, groAvn beyond the common 




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Beatrix 








THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


135 


height ; and arrived at such a dazzling 
completeness of beauty, that his eyes 
might well show surprise and delight 
at beholding her. In liers there was 
a brightness so lustrous and melting, 
that I have seen a whole assembly 
follow her as if by an attraction irre- 
sistible ; and that night the great Duke 
was at the playhouse after Uainillies, 
every soul turned and looked (she 
chanced to enter at the opposite side 
of the theatre at the same moment) at 
her, and not at him. She was a brown 
beauty : that is, her eyes, hair, and 
eyebrows and eyelashes were dark; 
her hair curling with rich undulations, 
and waving over her slionlders; but 
her complexion was as dazzling white 
as snow in sunshine; except her 
cheeks, which were a bright red, and 
her lips, which were of a still deeper 
crimson. Her mouth and chin, they 
said, were too large and full, and so 
they might be for a goddess in mar- 
ble, but not for a woman whose eyes 
were lire, whose look w.is have, whose 
voice was the sweetest low song, whose 
sha])e was perfect symmetry, health, 
decision, activity, wh )se foot as it 
planted itself on the ground was firm 
but flexible, and whose motion, wheth- 
er rapid or slow, was always perfect 
grace, — agile as a nymph, lofty as a 
queen, — now melting, now imperious, 
now sarcastic, —there was no single 
movement of hers but was beautiful. 
As he thinks of her, he who writes 
feels young again, and remembers a 
par.igon. 

So she came holding her dress with 
one fair rounded arm, and her taper 
before her, tripping down the stair to 
greet Esmond. 

“ She hatii put on her scarlet stock- 
ings and white shoes,” says my Lord, 
still laughing. “ 0 my fine mistress ! 
is this t!ie way you set your cap at the 
Captain ?” She approached, shining 
smiles upon Esmond, who could look 
at nothing but her eyes. She ad- 
vanced holding forward her head, as 
if she would have him kiss her as he 
used to do when she was a child. 

“ Stop,” she said, “I am grown too 


big! Welcome, Cousin Harry,” and 
she made him an arch courtesy, sweep- 
ing down to the ground almost, with 
the most gracious bend, looking up 
the while with the brightest eyes and 
sweetest smile. I^ove seemed to radi- 
ate from her. Harry eyed her with 
such a rapture as the first lover is de- 
scribed as having by Milton. 

“ N’est-cc pas "f ” says my Lady, in a 
low, sweet voice, still hanging on his 
arm. 

Esmond turned round with a start 
and a blush, as he met his mistress’s 
clear eyes. He had forgotten her, 
rapt in admiration of the jLlia pulcrior. 

” Right foot forward, toe turned 
out, so : now drop the courtesy, 
and show the red stockings, ’Trix. 
They ’ve silver clocks, Harry. The 
Dowager sent ’em. She went to put 
’em on,” cries my Lord. 

“ Hush, you stupid child ! says 
Miss, smothering her brother with 
kisses ; and then she must come and 
kiss her mamma, looking all the 
while at Harry over his mistress’s 
shoulder. And if she did not kiss 
him. she gave him both her hands, 
and then took one of his in both 
hands, and said, “ 0 Harry, we ’re 
so, so glad you ’re come ! ” 

“ Tliere are woodcocks for supper,” 
says my Lord. “ Huzzay ! It was 
such a hungry sermon.” 

“ And it is the 29th of Decem- 
ber, and onr Harry lies come home.” 

“ Huzzay, old Pincot ! ” again says 
my Lord ; and my dear lady’s lips 
looked as if they were trembling with 
prayer. She would have Harry lead 
in Beatrix to the supper-room, going 
herself with my young Lord Vis- 
count ; and to this party came 
Tom Tushcr directly, Avhom four at 
least out of the company of five 
wished away. Away he went, how- 
ever, as soon as the sweetmeats were 
put down, and then, by the great 
crackling fire, his mistress or Beatrix, 
with her blushing graces, filling his 
glass for him, Harry told the story of 
his campaign, and passed the most 
delightful night his life had ever 


13G 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


known. The sun was up lonp^ ere he 
Avas, so deep, sweet, and refreshing 
was his slumber. He woke as if ati- 
gels had been watching at his bed all 
night. I dare say one that Avas as 
pure and loving as an angel had 
blessed his sleep Avith her prayers. 

Next morning the chaplain read 
prayers to tlie little household at 
Walcote, as the custom Avas ; Esmond 
thought Mistress Beatrix did not 
listen to Tusher’s exhortation much : 
her eyes Avere Avandering everyAvherc 
during the service, at least Avhenever 
he looked up he met them. Perhaps 
he also was not very attentive to 
his Beverenee the chaplain. “ This 
might have been my life,” he Avas 
thinking ; “ this might haA-e been my 
duty from noAv till old age. Well, 
Avere it not a pleasant one to be Avith 
these dear friends and part from ’em 
no more 1 Until — until the destined 
loA'cr comes and takes aAvay pretty 
Beatrix,” — and the best part of 
Tom Tusher’s exposition, which may 
have been veiy learned and eloquent, 
was quite lost to poor Harry by this 
A’ision of the destined lover, Avho put 
the preacher out. 

All the Avhile of the prayers, Bea- 
trix knelt a little way before Harry 
Esmond. The red stockings AA'cre 
changed for a pair of grav, and black | 
shoes, in Avhich her fcet looked to the | 
full as pretty. All the roses of spring i 
could not vie with the brightness of 
her complexion ; Esmond thought he 
had neA^cr seen anything like the 
sunny lustre of her eyes. My Lady 
Viscountess looked hitigucd, as if 
with Avatching, and her face Avas pale. 

Miss Beatrix remarked these signs 
of indisposition in her mother and 
deplored them. “ I am an old avo- 
man,” says my Lady, Aviili a kind 
smile ; I cannot hope to look as 
young as you do, my dear.” 

“ She ’ll never look as good as you 
do if she lives till she ’s a hundred,” 
says my Lord, taking his mother by 
the waist, and kissing her hand. 

“ Do I look A'cry Avicked, cousin 1 ” 
says Beatrix, turning full round on 


Esmond, Avith her pretty face so close 
under bis chin, that the soft perfumed 
hair touched it. She laid her finger- 
tips on his slecA'e as she spoke ; and 
he put his other hand over hers. 

“ I ’rn like your looking-glass,” 
says he, “ and that can’t flatter you.” 

“ He means that you are ahvays 
looking at him, my dear,” says her 
mother, archly. Beatrix ran aAvay 
from Esmond at this, and flcAv to her 
mamma, Avhom she kissed, stopping 
my Lady’s mouth Avith her pretty 
hand. 

“ And Harry is very good to look 
at,” says my Lady, Avith her fond 
eyes regarding the young man. 

“ If ’t is good to see a happy face, ’ 
says he, “ you see that.” My Lady 
said, “ Amen,” Avith a sigh ; and 
Harry thought the memory of her 
dear lord rose up and rebuked her back 
again into sadness ; for her face lost 
tlie smile, and resumed its look of 
melancholy. 

“ Why, Harry, hoAv fine avc look in 
our scarlet and silver, and our black 
periAA ig,” cries my Lord. “ Mother, 
I am tired of my OAvn hair. When 
shall I have a peruke ^ Where did 
you get your steenkirk, Harry ? ” 

“ It ’s some of my Lady Dowa- 
ger’s lace,” says Harry ; “ she gaA'c 
me this and a number of other fine 
things.” 

“My Lady DoAAmger is n’t such a 
bad woman,” my Lord continued. 

“ She ’s not so — so red as she ’s 
painted,” says Miss Beatrix. 

Her , brother broke into a laugh. 
“ I ’ll tell her you said so ; by the 
Lord, ’Trix, I Avill,” he cries out. 

“ She ’ll knoAV that you had n’t the 
Avit to say it, my Lord,” says Miss 
Beatrix. 

“ We AA^on’t quarrel the first day 
Harry’s here, Avill avc, mother 1 ” said 
the young lord. “ We ’ll see if Ave 
can get on to the ncAv year Avitliout a 
fight. Have some of this Christmas 
pie. And here comes the tankard ; 
no, it ’s Pincot Avith the tea.” 

“ Will the Captain choose a dish ? ” 
asked IMislress Beatrix. 


THE HISTOKY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


137 


** I say, IlaiTj,” my Lord frocs on, 
I Tl sliow thee my horses after break- 
hist ; and Ave ’ll go a bird-netting to- 
night, and on Monday there ’s a 
cock-match at Winchester, — do you 
love cock- tig!) ting, Harry i — betAveen 
the gentlemen of Sussex and the 
gentlemen of Hampshire, at ten pound 
the battle, and fifty pound the odd 
battle to show one-and-tAventy cocks.” 

“ And Avhat aa'III you do, Beatrix, 
to amuse our kinsman 1 ” asks my 
Lady. 

“ I ’ll listen to him,” says Beatrix. 
“ I am sure he has a hundred things 
to tell us. And I ’m jealous already 
of the Spanish ladies. Was that a 
beautiful nun at Cadiz that you rescued 
from the soldiers 1 Y'our man talked 
of it last night in the kitchen, and 
Mrs. Betty told me this morning as 
she combed my hair. And he says 
you must be in love, for. you sat on 
deck all night, and scribbled verses all 
day in your table-book.” Harry 
thought if he had Avanted a sub- 
ject for verses yesterday, to-day lie 
had found one : and not all the Lind- 
amiras and Ardelias of the poets Avere 
half so beautiful as this young crea- 
ture; but he did not say so, though 
some one did for him. 

This Avas his dear lady, Avho, after 
the meal was over, and"^ the young 
people Avere gone, began talking of her 
children Avith Mr. Esmond, and of 
the characters of one and the other, 
and of her hopes and fears for both 
of them. “ ’T is not Avhile they are 
at home,” she said, “ and in their 
mother’s nest, I fear for them, — ’t is 
Avhen they are gone into the Avorld, 
whither I shall not be able to follow 
them. Beatrix Avill begin her service 
next year. You may have heard a 
rumor about — about my Lord Bland- 
ford. They Avere both children ; and 
it is but idle talk.' I know my kins- 
woman Avould never let him make 
such a poor marriage as our Beatrix 
Avmuld be. There ’s scarce a princess 
in Europe that she thinks is good 
enough for him or for her ^ambi- 
tion.” 


“ There ’s not a princess in Europe 
to compare Avith her,” says Esmond. 

“In beauty? No, perhaps not,” 
ansAvered my Lady. “ She is most 
beautiful, is n’t she ? ’T is not a 
mother’s partiality that deceives me. 
I marked you yesterday Avhen she 
came doAvn the stair : and read it in 
your face. We look Avhen you don’t 
fancy us looking, and see better than 
you think, dear Harry : and just noAV 
Avhen they spoke about your poems, — 
you Avrit pretty lines Avhen you Avere 
but a boy, — you thought Beatrix Avas 
a pretty subject for verse, did not you, 
Harry ? ” ( The gentleman could only 
blush for a reply.) “ And so she is, — 
nor are you the first her pretty face 
has captivated. ’T is quickly done. 
Such a pair of bright eyes as hers 
learn' their pOAver very soon, and use 
it very early.” And, looking at him 
keenly Avith hers, the fair AvidoAV left 
him. 

And so it is, — a pair of bright eyes 
Avith a dozen glances suffice to subdue 
a man ; to enslave him, and inflame 
him ; to make him even forget ; they 
dazzle him so that the past becomes 
straightAvay dim to him ; and he so 
prizes them that he Avould give all his 
life to possess ’em. What is the fond 
love of dearest friends compared to 
this treasure ? Is memory as strong 
as expectancy ? fruition, as hunger ? 
gratitude, as desire ? I have looked 
at royal diamonds in the jeAvel-rooms 
in Europe, and thought hoAv Avars 
have been made about ’em ; Mogul 
sovereigns deposed and strangled for 
them, or ransomed Avitli them ; mil- 
lions expended to buy them ; and dar- 
ing Ha'cs lost in digging out the little 
shining toys that I value no more than 
the button in my hat. And so there 
are other glittering baubles (of rare 
Avater too) for Avhich men haA^e been 
set to kill and quarrel ever since man- 
kind began ; and Avhich last but for a 
score of years, Avhen their sparkle is 
OA'er. Where are those jcAvels uoav 
that beamed under Cleopatra’s fore- 
head, or shone in the sockets of 
Helen? 


138 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


The second day after Esmond’s 
coming to Walcote, Tom Tnsher had 
leave to take a holiday, and Avent otF 
in his very best gown and bands to 
court the young woman Avhom his 
Reverence desired to marry, and avIio 
was not a Viscount’s widow, as it 
turned out, but a brewer’s relict at 
Southampton, with a couple of thou- 
sand pounds to her fortune : tor hon- 
est Torn’s heart was under such 
excellent control, that Venus hei'self 
without a portion would never have 
caused it to flutter. So he rode away 
on his hcavy-])aced gelding to pursue 
his jog-trot loves, leaving Esmond to 
the society of his dear mistress and 
lier daughter, and with his young 
lord for a companion, who Avas 
charmed, not only to see an old friend, 
but to liaA^e the tutor and his Latin 
books put out of the Avay. 

The boy talked of things and peo- 
ple, and not a little about himself, in 
his frank artless Avay. ’T Avas easy 
to see that he and his sister had the 
better of their fond mother, for the 
first place in Avhose affections, though 
they fought constantly, and though 
the kind lady persisted that she loved 
both equally, ’t Avas not difficult to 
understand that Frank Avas his moth- 
er’s darling and favorite. He ruled 
the Avholc household (ahvays except- 
ing rebellious Beatrix) not less noAV 
than Avhen he Avas a child marshalling 
the village boys in playing at soldiers, 
and caning them lustily too, like the 
sturdiest corporal. As for Tom 
Tusher, his Reverence treated the 
young lord Avith that politeness and 
deference which he ahvays shoAved for 
a great man, Avhatever his age or liis 
stature Avas. Indeed, Avith respect to 
this young one, it Avas impossible not 
to love him, so frank and Avinning 
Avere his manners, his beauty, his 
gayety, the ring of his laughter, 
and the delightful tone of his* voice. 
AVherever he Avent, he charmed and 
domineered. I think his old grand- 
father the Dean, and the grim old 
housekeeper, Mrs. Pincot, Avere as 
much his slaves as his mother was : 


and as for Esmond, he found himself 
presently submitting to a certain fas- 
cination the boy had, and slaving it 
like the rest of the family. The 
pleasure Avhieh he had in Frank’s mere 
company and converse exceeded that 
Avhich he ever enjoyed in the society 
of any other man, hoAvever delightful 
in talk, or famous for Avit. His pres- 
ence brought sunshine into a room, 
his laugh, his prattle, his noble beau- 
ty and brightness of look cheered and 
charmed indescribably. At the least 
talc of sorroAv, his hands Avere in his 
purse, and he Avas eager Avith sympa- 
thy and bounty. The Avay in Avhich 
Avomen loved and petted him, Avhen, 
a year or tAvo afterAvards, he came 
upon the Avorld, yet a mere boy, and 
the follies Avhich they did for him (as 
indeed he for them), recalled the ca- 
reer of Rochester, and outdid the 
successes of Grammont. His A’ery 
creditors loved him ; and the hardest 
usurers, and some of the rigid prudes 
of the other sex loo, could deny him 
nothing. He Avas no more Avitty 
than another man, but Avhat he said, 
he said and looked as no man else 
could say or look it. I have seen the 
Avomen at the comedy at Bruxelles 
croAvd round him in the lobby ; and 
as he sat on the stage more people 
looked at him than at the actors, and 
Avatched him ; and I remember at 
Ramillies, Avhen he Avas hit and fell, a 
great big red-haired Scotch sergeant 
flung his halbert doAvn, burst out 
a-crying like a AA’oman, seizing him 
up as if he had been an infant, and 
carrying him out of the fire. This 
brother and sister Avere the most 
beautiful couple ever seen ; though 
after he Avinged aAvay from the ma- 
ternal nest this pair Avere seldom to- 
gether. 

Sitting at dinner tAA'O days after 
Esmond’s arrival (it AA'as the last day 
of the year), and so happy a one to 
Harry Esmond, that to enjoy it Avas 
quite Avorth all the previous pain 
Avhich he had endured and forgot, my 
young lord, filling a bumper, and 
bidding Harry take another, drank to 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


139 


his sister, saluting her under the title 
of “Marchioness.’" 

“ Marchioness ! ” says Harry, not 
without a pang of wonder, for he was 
curious and jealous already. 

“Nonsense, iny Lord,” says Bea- 
trix, with a toss of her head. My 
Lady Viscountess looked up for a 
moment at Esmond, and cast her eyes 
down. 

“ The Marchioness of Blandford,” 
says Frank. “Don’t you know — 
hath not Rouge Dragon told you ? ” 
(My Lord used to call the Dowager 
of Chelsey by this and other names.) 
“ Blandford has a lock of her hair : 
the Duchess found him on his knees 
to Mistress ’Trix, and boxed his 
ears, and said Dr. Hare should whip 
him.” 

“ I wish Mr. Tusher would whip 
you too,” says Beatrix. 

My Lady only said : “ I hope you 
will tell none of these silly stories 
elsewhere than at home, Francis.” 

“ ’T is true, on my word,” contin- 
ues Frank : “ look at Harry scowl- 
ing, mother, and see how Beatrix 
blushes as red as the silver-clocked 
stockings.” 

“ I think we had best leave the gen- 
tlemen to their wine and their talk,” 
says Mistress Beatrix, rising up with 
the air of a young queen, tossing her 
rustling flowing draperies about her, 
and quitting the room, followed by 
lier mother. 

Lady Castlewood again looked at 
Esmond, as she stooped down and 
kissed Frank. “Do not tell those 
silly stories, child,” she said : “ do 
not drink much wine, sir ; Harry 
never loved to drink wine.” And 
she went away, too, in her black 
robes, looking back on the young 
man with her fair, fond face. 

“ Egad ! it ’s true,” says Frank, 
sipping his wine with the air of a 
lord. “ AVhat think you of this Lis- 
bon, — real Collares ? ’T is better 
than your heady port : we got it out 
of one of the Spanish ships that came 
from Vigo last year : my mother 
bought it at Southampton as the ship 


j was lying there, — the ‘ Rose,’ Cap- 
tain Hawkins.” 

“ Why, I came home in that ship,” 
says Harry. 

“ And it brought home a good 
fellow and good wine,” says my Lord. 
“ I say, Harry, I wish thou hadst not 
that cursed bar sinister.” 

“ And why not the bar sinister 7 ” 
asks the other. 

“ Suppose I go to the army and am 
killed, — every gentleman goes to the 
army, — who is to take care of the 
women'? ’Trix will never stop at 
home ; mother ’s in love with you, — 
yes, I think mother ’s in love with 
you. She was always praising you, 
and always talking about you ; and 
when she Avent to Southampton, 
to see tlie ship, I found her out. But 
you see it is impossible : we are of 
the oldest blood in England ; Ave 
came in Aviih the (/Onqueror ; Ave Avere 
only baronets, — but what then 7 Ave 
were forced into that. James the 
First forced our great grandfather. 
We ai'e above titles; avc old English 
gentry don’t want ’em ; the Queen 
can make a duke any day. Look at 
Blandford’s father, Duke Churchill, 
and Duchess Jennings, Avhat Avcre 
they, Harry 7 Damn it, sir, Avhat 
are they, to turn up their noses at 
us 7 Where Avere they, Avhen our 
ancestor rode Avith King Henry at 
Agincourt, and filled up the French 
king’s cup after Poictiers 7 ’Fore 
George, sir, Avhy should n’t Blandford 
marry Beatrix'? By G — ! he s/ta/l 
marry Beatrix, or tell me the reason 
Avhy. We ’ll marry Avith the best 
blood of England, and none -but the 
best blood of England. You are an 
Esmond, and you can’t help your 
birth, my boy. Let ’s have another 
bottle. What ! no more 7 I ’ve 
drunk three parts of this myself. I 
had many a night Avith my father; 
you stood to him like a man, Harry. 
You backed your blood ; you can’t 
help your misfortune, you kiiOAv, — 
no man can help that.” 

The elder said he Avould go in to 
his mistress’s tea-table. The young 


140 


THE HISTOEY OF HENEY ESMOND. 


lad, with a heightened color and 
voice, began singing a snatch of a 
song, and marched out of the room. 
Esmond heard him presently calling 
his dogs about him, and cheering and 
talking to them ; and by a hundred 
of his looks and gestures, tricks of 
voice and gait, was reminded of the 
dead lord, Frank’s father. 

And so, the sylvester night passed 
away ; the family parted long before 
midnight, Lady Castlewood remem- 
bering, no doubt, former New Years’ 
eves, when healths were drunk, and 
laughter went round in the company 
of him, to whom yeai's, past, and 
present, and future, were to be as 
one ; and so cared not to sit with her 
children and hear the Cathedral bells 
ringing the birth of the year 1703. 
Esmond heard the chimes as he sat 
in his OAvn chamber, ruminating by 
the blazing fire there, and listened to 
the last notes of them, looking out 
from his window towards the city, 
and the great gray towers of the 
Cathedral lying under the frosty sky, 
with the keen stars shining above. 

The sight of these brilliant orbs no 
doubt made him think of other 
luminaries. “ And so her eyes have 
already done execution,” thought 
Esmond, — “ on whom 1 — who can 
tell me ? ” Luckily his kinsman was 
by, and Esmond knew he would have 
no difficulty in finding out Mistress 
Beatrix’s histor}'^ from the simple talk 
of the boy. 

— « — 

CHAPTER VIII. 

FAMILY TALK. 

"What Harry admired and submit- 
ted to in the pretty lad his kinsman 
was (for why should he resist it ?) the 
calmness of patronage which my 
young lord assumed, as if to com- 
mand Avas his undoubted right, and 
all the. Avorld (bcloAv his degree) 
ought to bow down to Viscount 
CastlcAvood. 

“ I know my place, Harry,” he 
said. '‘I’m not proud, — the boys 


at Winchester College say I ’m 
proud : but I ’m not proud. I am 
simply Francis James Viscount Cas- 
tlewood in the peerage of Ireland. I 
might have been (do you knoAV that 
Francis James Marquis and Earl of 
Esmond in that of England. The 
late lord refused the title Avhich Avas 
offered to him by my godfather, his 
late Majesty. You should knoAV 
that — you arc of our family, you 
knoAV — you cannot help your bar 
sinister, Harry my dear felloAv ; and 
you belong to one of the best families 
in England, in spite of that; and 
you stood by my father, and by 
G — ! I ’ll stand by you. You shall 
never Avant a friend, Harry, Avhile 
Francis James Viscount CastlcAAOod 
has a shilling. It’s noAv 1703, — I 
shall come of age in 1709. I shall 
go back to CastlcAvood ; I shall live 
at CastlcAA'ood ; I shall build up the 
house. My property Avill be pretty 
Avell restored by then. The late vis- 
count mismanaged my property, and 
left it in a very bad state. My moth- 
er is living close, as you see, and 
keeps me in a AA ay hardly befitting a 
peer of these realms ; for I have but 
a pair of horses, a governor, and a 
man that is valet and groom. But 
when I am of age, these things Avill 
be set right, Harry. Our house Avill 
be as it should be. You Avill alAA'ays 
come to CastlcAvood, AA’on’t you ? 
You shall ahvays have your tAA’o 
rooms in the court kept for you ; and 

if anybody slights you, d them ! 

let them have a care of me. I sh.all 
marry early, — ’Trix Avill be a duchess 
by that time, most likely ; for a can- 
non-ball may knock over his Grace 
any day, you knoAv.” 

“ Hoav 'i ” says Harry. 

“ Hush, my dear ! ” says my Lord 
Viscount. “You are of the family, 
— you are faithful to us, by George, 
and I tell you CA^cry thing. Bland- 
ford Avill marry her, — or ” — and 
here he put his little hand on his 
SAAwd — “you understand the rest. 
Blandford knoAvs Avhich of us tAvo is 
the best Aveapon. At small-SAvord, or 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


141 


back-sword, or sword and dagger if 
he likes ; I can beat him. I have 
tried him, Harry ; and begad he 
knows I am a man not to be trifled 
with.” 

“ But you do not mean,” says 
ILarry, concealing his laughter, but 
not his wonder, “ that you can force 
my Lord Blandford, the son of the 
fii'st man of this kingdom, to marry 
your sister at sword’s point 1 ” 

“ I mean to say that we are cousins 
by the mother’s side, though that ’s 
nothing to boast of. I mean to say 
that an Esmond is as good as a 
Churchill ; and when the King comes 
back, the Marquis of Esmond’s sister 
may be a match for any nobleman’s 
daughter in the kingdom. There are 
but two marquises in all England, 
William Herbert Marquis of Powis, 
and Francis James Marquis of Es- 
mond ; and hark you, Harry, — now 
swear you will never mention this. 
Give me your honor as a gentleman, 
for you are a gentleman, though you 
are a — ” 

“ Well, well ? ” says Harry, a little 
impatient. 

“ Well, then, when after my late 
viscount’s misfortune, my mother 
went up with us to London, to ask 
for justice against you all (as for 
Mohun, I ’ll have his blood, as sure 
as my name is Francis Viscount Es- 
mond), — we went to stay with our 
cousin my Lady Marlborough, with 
whom we had quarrelled for ever so 
long. But when misfortune came, she 
stood by her blood : — so did the 
Dowager Viscountess stand by her 
blood, — so did you. Well, sir, 
whilst my mother was petitioning the 
late Prince of Orange, — for I will 
never call him king, — and while you 
were in prison, we lived at my Lord 
Marlborough’s house, who was only 
a little there, being away Avith the 
army in Holland. And then ... I 
say, Harry, you won’t tell, noAV ? ” 

Harry again made a vow of se- 
crecy. 

“ Well, there used to he all sorts of 
fun, you knoAv: my Lady Marlbo- 


I rough Avas very fond of us, and she 
said I Avas to be her page ; and she 
got ’Trix to be a maid of honor, and 
Avhile she Avas up in her room crying, 
Ave used to be always having fun, you 
knoAv ; and the Duchess used to kiss 
me, and so did her daughters, and 
Blandford fell tremendous in love 
Avith ’Trix, and she liked him ; and 
one day he — he kissed her behind a 
door, — he did though, — and the 
Duchess caught him, and she banged 
such a box of the ear both at ’Trix 
and Blandford, — you should have 
seen it ! And then she said that Ave 
must leave directly, and abused my 
mamma Avho Avas cognizant of the 
business; but she Avas n’t — never 
thinking about anything but father. 
And so Ave came doAvn to Walcote. 
Blandford being locked up, and not 
alloAA'ed to see ’Trix. But / got at 
him. I climbed along the gutter, 
and in through the window, Avhere he 
was crying. 

“ ‘ Marquis,’ says I, Avhen he had 
opened it and helped me in, ‘you 
know I Avear a SAVord,’ for I had 
brought it. 

“ ‘ O Viscount,’ says he, — ‘ O my 
dearest Frank!’ and he threAv him- 
self into my arms and burst out a- 
crying. ‘ I do love Mistress Beatrix 
so, that I shall die if I don’t have her.’ 

“ ‘ My dear Blandford,’ says I, ‘ you 
are young to think of marrying’; for 
he was but fifteen, and a young 
felloAV of that age can scarce do so, 
you knoAV. 

“ ‘ But I ’ll wait tAventy years, if 
she ’ll have me,’ says he. ‘ I ’ll 
never marry, — no. never, neA^er, 
never, many anybody but her. No, 
not a princess, though they Avould 
have me do it ever so. If Beatrix 
will wait for me, her Blandford 
SAvears he Avill be faithful.’ And he 
AVTOte a paper (it Avas n’t spelt right, 
for he Avrote ‘ I ’m ready to sine ivith 
my blode,’ Avhich, you knoAV, Harry, 
is n’t the way of spelling it), and 
Awving that he Avould marry none 
other but the Honorable Mistress 
Gertrude Beatrix Esmond, only 


142 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


sister of his dearest friend Franeis 
James, fourth Viscount Esmond. 
And so I gave him a locket of her 
luiir.” 

“A locket of her hair'?” cries 
Esmond. 

“Yes. ’Trix gave me one after 
the tight with the Duchess that very 
day. I am sure I did n’t want it ; 
and so I gave it him, and we kissed 
at parting, and said, — ‘ Good by, 
brother.’ And I got back through 
the gutter ; and we set off home that 
very evening. And he went to King’s 
College, in Cambridge, and I ’m 
going to Cambridge soon ; and if he 
does n’t stand to his promise (for 
he’s only wrote once) — he knows I 
wear a sword, Harry. Come along, 
and let ’s go see the cocking-match at 
Winchester.” 

“. . . . But I say,” he added, 
laughing, after a pause, “I don’t 
think ’Trix will break her heart about 
him. La bless you ! whenever she 
sees a man, she makes eyes at him.; 
and young Sir Wilrnot Crawley of 
Queen’s Crawley, and Anthony 
Henley of Alresford, were at swords 
drawn about her, at the Winchester 
Assembly, a month ago.” 

That night Mr. Harry’s sleep w\as 
by no means so pleasant or sweet as 
it had been on the first two evenings 
after his arrival at Walcote. “ So 
the bright eyes have been already 
shining on another,” thought he, “and 
the pi’etty lips, or the cheeks at any 
rate, have begun the work which they 
Avere made for. Here ’s a girl not 
sixteen, and one young gentleman is 
already wdiimpering over a lock of 
her hair, and two country squires are 
read}'- to cut each other’s throats that 
they may have the honor of a dance 
with her. What a fool am I to be 
dallying about this passion, and 
singeing my wings in this foolish 
flame. Wings ! — why not say 
crutches ? There is but eight years’ 
difference between us, to be sure ; 
but in life I am thirty years older. 
How could I ever hope to please such 
a sweet creature as that, with my 


rough Avays and glum face ? Say 
that I have merit ever so much, and 
won myself a name, could she ever 
listen to me? She must be my Lady 
Marchioness, and I remain a name- 
less bastard. Oil ! my master, my 
master!” (here he fell to thinking 
Avith a passionate grief of the a’oav 
Avhich he had made to his poor dying 
lord.) “Oh! my mistress, dearest 
and kindest, Avill you be contented 
with the sacrifice Avhich the poor 
orphan makes for you, whom you 
love, and Avho so loves you ? ” 

And then came a fiercer pang of 
temptation. “A Avord from me,” 
Han*y thought, “ a syllable of ex- 
planation, and all this might be 
changed ; but no, I SAvore it over the 
dying bed of my benefactor. For 
the sake of him and his ; for the 
sacred Ioa'c and kindness of old days ; 
I gaA’e my promise to him, and may 
kind Heaven enable me to keep my 

VOAV ! ” 

The next day, although Esmond 
gave no sign of Avhat Avas going on 
in his mind, but stroA’e to be more 
than ordinarily gay and cheerful 
Avhen he met his friends at the morn- 
ing meal, his dear mistress, Avhose 
clear eyes it seemed no emotion of 
his could escape, perceKed that 
something troubled him, for she 
looked anxiously tOAvards him more 
than once during the breakfast, and 
Avhen he went up to his chamber 
aftcrAvards she presently folloAved 
him, and knocked at his door. 

As she entered, no doubt the AA’^hole 
story Avas clear to her at once, for she 
found our young gentleman packing 
his valise, pursuant to the resolution 
Avhich he had come to overnight of 
making a brisk retreat out of this 
temptation. 

She closed the door A’ery carefully 
behind her, and then leant against it, 
very pale, her hands folded before her, 
looking at the young man, Avho Avas 
kneeling over his Avork of packing. 
“ Are you going so soon ? ” she said. 

He rose up from Ids knees, blushing, 
perhaps, to be so discovered, in the 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


143 


very act, as it were, and took one of 
her fair little hands — it was that 
which had her marriage ring on — 
and kissed it. 

“ It is best that it should be so, 
dearest lady,” he said. 

“ I knew you were going, at break- 
fast. I — 1 thought you might stay. 
What has happened Why can’t 
you remain longer Avith \is ? What 
has Frank told you, — youAvere talk- 
ing together late last night 1 ” 

“ I had but three days’ leaAX from 
Chelsey,” Esmond said, as gayly as 
he could. “ My aunt — she lets me 
call her aunt — is my mistress noAv ! 
I OAve her my lieutenancy and my 
laced coat. She has taken me into 
high favor ; and my ncAV General is 
to dine at Chelsey to-morroAA', — Gen- 
eral Lumley, madam, — Avho has ap- 
pointed me his aide-de-camp, and on 
Avhom I must hav'e the honor of Avait- 
ing. See, here is a letter from the 
DoAvager ; the post brought it last 
night ; and I Avould not speak of it, 
for fear of disturbing our last merry 
meeting.” 

My Lady glanced at the letter, and 
put it doAvn Avith a smile that Avas 
someAvhat contemptuous. “ I liaA^e no 
need to read the letter,” says she 
( indeed ’t Avas as Avell she did not ; for 
the Chelsey missive, in the poor dow- 
ager’s usual French jargon, permitted 
him a longer holiday than he said. 
“ Je A'ous donne,” quoth her Ladyship, 
“ oui jour, pour vous I'atigay parfaicte- 
ment de a'os parens fatigans ”), — “ I 
haA-^e no need to read the letter,” says 
she. “What Avas it Frank told you 
last night 1 ” 

“ He told me little I did not knoAV,” 
IMr. Esmond ansAvered. “ But I haAm 
thought of that little, and here ’s the 
result : I have no right to the name I 
bear, dear lady ; and it is only by 
your sufferance that I am alloAved to 
keep it. If I thought for an hour of 
Avhat has perhaps crossed your mind 
too — ” 

“ Yes, I did, Harry,”- said she ; “ I 
thought of it ; and think of it. I 
would sooner call you my son than 


the greatest prince in Europe, — yes, 
than the greatest prince. For Avho is 
there so good and so braA'e, and 
Avho Avould love her as you Avould ? 
But there are reasons a mother can’t 
tell.” 

“ I knoAV them,” said Mr. Esmond, 
interrupting her Avith a smile. “ I 
knoAv there ’s Sir Wilmot Crawley of 
Queen’s CraAvlcy, and Mr. Anthony 
Henley of the Grange, and my Lord 
Marquis of Blandford, that seems to 
be the favored suitor. You shall ask 
me to Avear my Lady Marchioness’s 
favors and to dance at her Ladyship’s 
Avedding.” 

“ Oh ! Harry, Harry, it is none of 
these follies that frighten me,” cried 
out Lady CastlcAvood. “ Lord 
Churchill is but a child, his outbreak 
about Beatrice Avas a mere boyish 
folly. His parents would rather see 
him buried than married to one be- 
low him in rank. And do you think 
that I Avould stoop to sue for a hus- 
band for Francis Esmond’s daughter; 
or submit to have my girl smuggled 
into that proud family to cause a quar- 
rel between son and parents, and to 
be treated only as an inferior 1 I 
Avould disdain such a meanness. 
Beatrix Avould scorn it. Ah ! Henry, ’t 
is not Avith you the fault lies, ’t is AAuth 
her. I knoAV you both, and loA^e you : 
need I be ashamed of that loA^e noAv 1 
No, ncA'er, never, and ’t is not you, 
dear Harry, that is unAvorthy. ’T is 
for my poor Beatrix I tremble, — 
Avhose headstrong Avill frightens me ; 
Avhose jealous temper (they say I Avas 
jealous too, but, pray God, I am 
cured of that sin) and Avhose vanity 
no Avords or prayers of mine can cure, 
— only suffering, only experience, 
and remorse afteinvards. Oh ! Hen- 
ry, she Avill make no man happy avIio 
loves her. Go aAvay, my son : leave 
her : loA^e us ahvays, and think kindly 
of us : and for me, my dear, you 
knoAv that these Avails contain all that 
I love in the Avorld.” 

In after life, did Esmond find the 
words true Avhich his fond mistress 
spoke from her sad heart ? Warning 


144 


THE HISTOEY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


he had : hut I doubt others had warn- 
ing' before liis time, and sinee : and he 
beiieliteil by it as most men do. 

My young Lord Viscount was ex- 
ceeding sorry when he heard tliat 
Harry couKl not come to the cock- 
match with him, and must go to Lon- 
don, but no doubt my Lord consoled 
himself when the Hampshire cocks 
won the match ; and he saw every one 
of the battles, and crowed properly 
over the conquered Sussex gentlemen. 

As Esmond rode towards town his 
servant, coming up to him, informed 
him with a grin, that Mistress Beatrix 
liad brought out a new gown and blue 
stockings for that day’s dinner, in 
which she intended to appear, and had 
flown into a rage and given her maid 
a slap on the face soon after she heard 
he was going away. Mistress Bea- 
trix’s woman, the fellow said, came 
down to the servants’ hall crying, and 
with the mark of a blow still on her 
cheek : but Esmond peremptorily or- 
dered him to fall back and be silent, 
and rode on with thoughts enough of 
his own to occupy him, — some sad 
ones, some inexpressibly dear and 
pleasant. 

His mistress, from whom he had 
been a year separated, was his dearest 
mistress again. The family from 
which he had been parted, and which 
he loved with the fondest devotion, 
was his family once more. IfBeatrix’s 
beauty shone upon him, it was with a 
friendly lustre, and he could regard it 
with much such a delight as he brought 
away after seeing the beautiful pic- 
tures of the smiling Madonnas in the 
convent at Cadiz, when he was de- 
spatched thither with a flag ; and as 
for his mistres's, ’t was difficult to say 
with what a feeling he regarded her. 
’T was happiness to have seen her ; 
’t was no great pang to part ; a filial 
tenderness, a love that was at once re- 
spect and protection, filled his mind 
as he thought of her ; and near her or 
far from her, and from that day until 
now, and from now till death is past, 
and beyond it, he prays that sacred 
fiinne may ever burn. 


CHAPTER IX. 

I MAKE THE CAMPAIGN OF 1704. 

Mr. Esmond rode up to London 
then, where, if the Dowager had been 
angry at the abrupt leave of absence 
he took, she was mightily pleased at 
his speedy return. 

He Avent immediately and paid his 
court to his new general, General 
Lumley, who received him graciousl}^, 
having known his father, and also, he 
Avas pleased to say, having had the 
very best accounts of Mr. Esmond 
from the officer Avhose aide-de-camp he 
had been at Vigo. During this Avin- 
ter Mr, Esmond was gazetted to a 
lieutenancy in Brigadier Webb’s regi- 
ment of Fusileers, then Avith their 
colonel in Flanders ; but being noAV 
attached to the suite of Mr. Lumley, 
Esmond did not join hisoAvn regiment 
until more than a year afterAvards, 
and after his return from the cam- 
paign of Blenheim, which Avas fought 
the next year. The campaign began 
very early, our troops marching out 
of their quarters before the Avinter 
was almost OA'er, and investing the 
city of Bonn, on the Rhine, under the 
Duke’s command. His Grace joined 
the army in deep grief of mind, Avith 
crape on his slecA^e, and his household 
in mourning ; and the very same pack- 
et Avhich brought the Commander-in- 
Chief over, brought letters to the 
forces which preceded him, and one 
from his dear mistress to Esmond, 
which interested him not a little. 

The young Marquis of Blandford^ 
his Grace’s son, who had been entered 
in King’s College in Cambridge 
{Avhither my Lord Viscount had also 
gone, to Trinity, Avith My. Tusher as 
his governor), had been seized Avith 
small-pox, and was dead at sixteen 
years of age, and so poor Frank’s 
schemes for his sister’s advancement 
AA'cre over, and that innocent childish 
passion nipped in the birth. 

Esmond’s mistress Avould liaA’-e had 
him return, at least her letters hint- 
ed as much ; but in the presence of 
the enemy this was impossible, and 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


145 


our young man took Ins humble share 
in the siege, which need not be de- 
scribed here, and had the good luck 
to escape without a wound of any sort, 
and to drink liis general’s health after 
the surrender. He was in constant 
military duty this year, and did not 
think of asking for a leave of absence, 
as one or two of his less fortunate 
friends did, who were cast away in 
that tremendous storm which hap- 
pened towards the close of November, 
tliat “ which of late o’er pale Brit- 
annia past” (as Mr. Addison sang of 
it), and in Avhich scores of our great- 
est ships and 15,000 of our seamen 
went down. 

They said that our Duke was quite 
heart-broken by the calamity which 
had befallen his family ; but his ene- 
mies found that he could subdue 
them, as well as master his grief. 
Successful as had been this great 
General’s operations in the past year, 
they were far enhanced by the splen- 
dor of his victory in the ensuing cam- 
paign. His Grace the Captain-Gen- 
eral went to Ihigland after Bonn, and 
our army fell back into Holland, 
where, in April, 1704, his Grace again 
found the troops, embarking from 
Harwich and landing at Maesland 
Sluys : thence his Grace came imme- 
diately to the Hague, where he re- 
ceived the foreign ministers, general 
ofheers, and other people of quality. 
The greatest honors were paid to his 
Grace everywhere, — at the Hague, 
Utrecht, Kuremonde, and Macstricht ; 
the civil authorities coming to meet 
his coaches : salvos of cannon salut- 
ing him, canopies of state being 
erected for him where he stopped, 
and feasts prepared for the numerous 
gentlemen following in his suite. 
His Grace reviewed the trooi^s of the 
States-Gcneral between Liege and 
hlaestriclit, and afterwards the Eng- 
lish forces, under the command of 
General Churchill, near Bois-le-Duc. 
Every preparation was made for a 
long march ; and the army heard, 
with no small elation, that it was the 
Commandcr-in-Chief’s intention to 
7 


carry the war out of the Low Coun- 
tries, and to march on the Mozellc. 
Before leaving our camp at Macs- 
tricht, we heard that the French, un- 
der the Marshal Viileroy, were also 
bound towards the Mozelle. 

Towards the end of May, the army 
reached Coblcntz ; and next day, his 
Grace, and the generals accompany- 
ing him, went to visit the Elector of 
Treves at his Castle of Ehrcnbrcit- 
stein, the horse and dragoons passing 
the Rhine whilst the Duke was enter- 
tained at a grand feast by the Elector. 
All as yet was novelty, festivity, and 
splendor, — a brilliant march of a 
great and glorious army tlu'ough a 
friendly country, and sure through 
some of the most beautiful scenes of 
nature which 1 ever witnessed. 

The foot and artillery, following 
after the horse as quick as possible, 
crossed the Rhine under Ehrenbreit- 
stein, and so to Castel, over against 
Mayntz, in which city his Grace, his 
generals, and his retinue were received 
at the landing-place by the Elector’s 
coaches, carried to his Highness’s 
palace amidst the thunder of cannon, 
and then once more magnificently en- 
tertained. Gidlingen, in Bavaria, 
was appointed as the general rendez- 
vous of the army, and thither, by 
different routes, the whole forces of 
English, Dutch, Danes, and German 
auxiliaries took their way. The foot 
and artillery under General Churchill 
])assed the Neckar, at Heidelberg ; 
and Esmond had an opportunity of 
seeing that city and palace, once so 
famous and beautiful (though shat- 
tered and battered by the French, un- 
der Tnrennc, in the late war), where 
his grandsire had served the beanti- 
fnl and unfortunate Electress -Pala- 
tine, the first King Charles’s sister. 

At Mindelsheim, the famous Prince 
of Savoy came to visit our com- 
mander, all of us crowding eagerly 
to get a sight of that brilliant and in- 
trepid w^arrior ; and our troops were 
drawm up in battalia before the 
Prince, who Avas pleased to exju'ess 
his admiration of this noble English 
J 


146 


THE HISTOKY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


army. At length we came in sight 
of the enemy between Dillingen and 
Lawingen, the Hreiitz lying between 
the two armies. Tlie Elector, judg- 
ing that l^onauwort would be the 
point of his Grace’s attack, sent a 
strong detachment of his best troops 
to Count Darcos, who Avas posted at 
ISchellenbtn-g, near that jjlace, Avhcrc 
great intrcnchmcnts were thrown up, 
and thousands of pioneers employed 
to strengthen the position. 

On the 2d of July, his Grace 
stormed the post, Avith Avhat success 
on our part need scarce be told. His 
Grace adAanced Avith six thousand 
foot, English and Dutch, thirty squad- 
rons, and three regiments of imperial 
Cuirassiers, the Duke crossing the 
river at the head of the cavalry. Al- 
though our troops made the attack 
with unparalleled courage and fury, 
— rushing up to the very guns of the 
enemy, and being slaughtered before 
their Avorks, — Ave Avere driA^en back 
many times, and should not have car- 
ried them, but that the Imperialists 
came up under the Prince of Baden, 
when the enemy could make no head 
against us : Ave pursued him into the 
trenches, making a terrible slaughter 
there, and into the very Danube, 
Avhere a great part of his troops, fol- 
lowing the example of their generals. 
Count Darcos and the Elector him- 
self, tried to save themselves by SAvim- 
ming. Our army entered *Donau- 
Avort, which the Bavarians evacuated ; 
and 'Avhere ’t Avas said the Elector 
proposed to have given us a Avarm re- 
ception, by burning us in our beds ; 
the cellars of the houses, Avhen Ave 
took possession of them, being found 
stuffed Avith straAV. But though the 
links Avere there, the link-boys had 
run away. The tOAvnsmen saved 
their houses, and our General took 
possession of the enemy’s ammuni- 
tion in the arsenals, his stores, and 
magazines. Five days aftei’Avards a 
great “ Te Deura” Avas sung in 
Prince LeAvis’s ai*my, and a solemn 
day of thanksgiving held in our oAvn ; 
the Prince of Savoy’s compliments 


coming to his Grace the Captain- 
General during the day’s religious 
ceremony, and concluding, as it Avere, 
Avitb an Arncn. 

And noAV, having seen a great mili- 
tary inarch through a friendly country; 
the pomps and festivities of more than 
one German court ; the severe struggle 
of a hotly contested battle, and the 
triumph of victory, Mr. Esmond be- 
held another part of military duty : 
our troops entering the enemy’s terri- 
tory, and putting all around them to 
fire and SAvord ; burning faians, Avasted 
fields, sbrieking Avornen, slaughtered 
sons and fathers, and drunken soldiery, 
cursing and carousing in the midst 
of tears, terror, and murder. AVliy 
does the stately Muse of History, that 
delights in describing the valor of 
heroes and the grandeur of conquest, 
leaA'^e out these scenes, so brutal, mean, 
and degrading, that yet form by far 
the greater part of the drama of Avar ? 
You, gentlemen of England, Avho live 
at home at ease, and compliment your- 
selv'es in the songs of triumph Avith 
Avhich our chieftains are bepraised, — 
you pretty maidens, that come tum- 
bling down the stairs Avhen the fife 
and drum call you, and huzza for the 
British Grenadiers — do you take ac- 
count that these items go to make up 
the amount of triumpli you admire, 
and form part of the duties of the 
heroes you fondle ? Our chief, Avhom 
England and all Europe, saving only 
the Frenchmen, AAorshipped almost, 
had this of the godlike in him, that 
he Avas impassible before victory, be* 
fore danger, before defeat. Before iho 
greatest obstacle or the most trivial 
ceremony ; before a hundred thousand 
men draAvn in battalia, or a peasant 
slaughtered at the door of his burning 
hovel; before a carouse of drunken 
German lords, or a monarch’s court 
or a cottage table, where his plans 
Avere laid, or an enemy’s battery, 
vomiting flame and death", and strew- 
ing corpses round about him; — he 
Avas ahvays cold, calm, resolute, like 
fate. He performed a treason or a 
court-bow, he told a falsehood af 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ES:^IOND. 


147 


black <as Styx, as easily as be paid a 
compliment or spoke about tbe 
wcatbcr. He took a mistress, and 
left her ; he betrayed bis benefactor, 
and supported bim, or would have 
murdered bim, with tbe same calm- 
ness always, and baving- no more re- 
morse than Ciotbo when sbe w'eaves 
tbe thread, or Lachcsis when sbe cuts 
it. In the hour of battle I bavo beard 
the Prince of Savoy’s officers say, tbe 
Prince became possessed with a sort 
of warlike fury ; bis eyes lighted up ; 
be rushed hither ami thither, raging; 
be shrieked curses and encouragement, 
yelling and harking bis bloody war- 
dogs on, and himself always at tbe 
tirst of the hunt. Our Duke was as 
calm at tbe mouth of the cannon as at 
tbe door of a drawing-room. Perhaps 
be could not have been tbe great 
man he was, bad he had a heart 
either for iove or hatred, or pity or 
fear, or regret or remorse. He 
achieved the highest deed of daring, 
or deepest calculation of thought, as 
lie performed the very meanest ac- 
tion of which a man is capable ; told 
a lie', or cheated a fond woman, or 
robbed a poor beggar of a halfpenny, 
with a like awful serenity and equal 
ca])acity of the highest and lowest 
acts of our nature. 

His qualities were pretty well 
known in the army, w^ere there were 
parties of all politics, and of plenty 
of shrewdness and wit ; but there ex- 
isted such a perfect confidence in him, 
as the first captain of the world, and 
such a faith and admiration in his pro- 
digious genius and fortune, that the 
very men whom he notoriously cheat- 
ed of tlieir pay, the chiefs whom he 
used and injured — (for he used all 
men, great and small, that came near 
him, as his instruments alike, and 
took something of theirs, either some 
quality or some ju'opcrty, — the blood 
of a soldier, it might be, or a jewelled 
hat, or a Imndred thousand crowns 
from a king, or a portion out of a 
starving sentinel’s three-farthings ; or 
(when he was young) a kiss from a 
Avoman, and the gold chain off her 


neck, taking all he could from Avoman 
or man, ami having, as Isaid, this of 
the godlike in him, that he could see a 
hero perish or a spari'ow fall, Avith the 
same amount of sympathy for either. 
Not that he bad no tears; he could ab 
ways order up this rcseiveat the prop 
cr moment to battle ; he could draw 
upon tears or sntiles alike, and Avlien. 
CA’er need Avas for using this cheap 
coin. He Avmuld cringe to a shoeblack, 
as he Avould Hatter a minister or a 
monarch ; be haughty, be humbled, 
threaten, repent, Aveep, grasp your 
hand, or stab you Avhenever he smav 
occasion) — but yet those of the army, 
Avho kneAV him lx;st and had suffered 
most from him, admired him most of 
all : and as he rode along the lines to 
battle or galloped up in the nick of 
time to a battalion reeling fi om before 
the enemy’s charge or shot, the faint- 
ing men and officers got ncAv courage 
as they saw the splendid calm of his 
face, and felt that his Avill made them 
irresistible. 

After the great victory of Blenheim 
the enthusiasm of the army for the 
Duke, even of his bitterest personal 
enemies in it, amounted to a sort of 
rage, — nay, the A'cry officers Avho 
cursed him in their hearts Avere among 
the most frantic to cheer him. Who 
could refuse his meed of admiration 
to such a victory and such a victor '? 
Not he Avho Avrites : a man may pro- 
fess to be ever so much a philosopher ; 
but he Avho fought on that day must 
feel a thrill of pride as he recalls it. 

The Frencli right Avas posted near 
to the village of Blenheim, on the 
Danube, Avhere the Marshal Tallard’s 
quarters AA'ere; their line extending 
through, it may be a league and a 
half, before Lutzingen and up to a 
Avoody hill, round the base of which, 
and acting against the Prince of Sa- 
voy, Avere forty of his squadrons. 

Here Avas a village that the French- 
men had burned, the Avood being, in 
fact, a better shelter and easier of 
guard than any village. 

Before these two villages and tho 
French lines ran a little stream, no? 


148 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


more than two foot broad, through 
a marsh (that was mostly dried np 
from the heats of the weather), and 
this stream was the only separation 
between the tAvo armies, — ours eom- 
ing up and ranging themselres in line 
of battle before the French, at six 
o’clock in the morning ; so that our 
line was quite visible to theirs ; and 
the whole of this great plain was 
black and swarming with troops for 
hours before the cannonading be- 
gan. 

On one side and the other this can- 
nonading lasted many hours. Tlie 
French guns being in position in 
front of their line, and doing severe 
damage among our horse especially, 
and on our right wing of Imperialists 
under the Prince of Savoy, Avho could 
neither advance his artillery nor his 
lines, the ground before him being 
cut up by ditches, morasses, and very 
difficult of passage for the guns. 

It was past midday when the attack 
began on our left, where Lord Cutts 
commanded, the bravest and most be- 
loA^d officer in the English army. 
And now, as if to make his experi- 
ence in Avar complete, our young 
aide-de-camp having seen tw'o great 
armies facing each other in line of 
battle, and had the honor of riding 
Avith orders from one end to other of 
the line, came in for a not uncommon 
accompaniment of military glory, and 
Avas knocked on the head, along with 
many hundred of brave fellows, al- 
most at the A'ery commencement of 
this ffimous day of Blenheim. A lit- 
tle after noon, the disposition for at- 
tack being completed Avith much de- 
lay and difficulty, and under a severe 
Sre from the enemy’s guns, that were 
better posted and more numerous 
than ours, a body of English and 
Hessians, Avith Major-General Wilkes 
commanding at the extreme left of 
our line, marched upon Blenheim, ad- 
vancing Avith great gallantry, the 
Major-General on foot, Avith bis offi- 
cers, at the head of the column, and 
marching Avith his hat off, intrepidly 
in the face of the enemy, who was 


pouring in a tremendous fire from his 
guns and musketry, to Avliich our peo- 
ple Averc instructed not to reply ex- 
cept Avith pike and bayonet Avbcn 
they reached the French palisades. 
To these Wilkes Avalkcd intrepidly, 
and struck the AvoodAvork Avitb his 
sAvord before our people charged it. 
He was shot doAvn at tlie instant, Avith 
his colonel, major, and several offi- 
cers ; and our troops cheering and 
huzzaing, and coming on, as they 
did, Avith immense resolution and 
gallantry, were ncvei thelcss sto])ped 
by the murderous fire from behind the 
enemy’s defences, and then attacked 
in flank by a furious charge of French 
horse Avhieh SAvept out of Blenheim, 
and cut down our men in great num- 
bers. Three fierce and desperate as- 
saults of our foot Avere made and re- 
pulsed by the enemy ; so that our 
columns of foot AA'cre quite shattered, 
and I'cll back, scrambling over the 
little rivulet, which we had crossed so 
resolutely an hour before, and pur- 
sued by the French cavalry, slaughter- 
ing us and cutting us doAvn. 

And noAv the conquerors Avere met 
by a furious charge of English liorse 
under Esmond’s general. General 
Lumley, behind whose squadrons the 
flying foot found refuge, and formed 
again, Avhilst Lumley droA’e back the 
French horse, charging up to the vil- 
lage of Blenheim and the palisades 
Avhere Wilkes, and many hundred 
more gallant Englishmen, lay in 
slaughtered heaps. Beyond this mo- 
ment, and of this famous Auctory, 
Mr. Esmond knoAvs nothing ; for a 
shot brought doAvn his horse and our 
young gentleman on it, Avho fell 
crushed and stunned under the ani- 
mal, and came to his senses he knoAvs 
not hoAv long .after, only to lose them 
again from pain and loss of blood. A 
dim sense, as of people groaning round 
about him, a wild incoherent thought 
or tAvo lor her Avho oecujiied so much 
of his heart uoaa', and that here his 
career, and his hopes, and misfor- 
tunes were ended, he remembers in 
the course of these hours. When he 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


140 


woke up, it was with a pang of ex- 
treme pain, his breastplate was taken 
off, his servant was liolding liis head 
up, the good and faithful lad of Hamp- 
shire * was blubbering over his mas- 
ter, whom he found and had thought 
dead, and a surgeon was probing a 
wound in the shoulder, Avliich he 
must have got at the same moment 
when his horse Avas shot and fell over 
him. The battle Avas OA-^er at this 
end of the field, by this time : the 
village Avas in possession of the Eng- 
lish, its braA^e defenders prisoners, or 
fled, or droAvned, many of them, in 
the neighboring Avaters of Donau. 
But for honest LockAvood’s faithful 
search after his master, there had no 
doubt been an end of Esmond here, 
and of this his story. The maraud- 
ers Avere out rifling the bodies as they 
lay on the field, and Jack had brained 
one of these gentry Avith the club-end 
of his musket, Avho had eased Es- 
mond of his hat and periAvig, his 
purse, and fine silver-mounted pistols 
which the DoAvager ga\"e him, and 
was fumbling in his pockets for fur- 
ther treasure, Avhen Jack LockAVOod 
came up and put an end to the scoun- 
drel’s triumph. 

Hospitals for our Avounded Averc es- 
tablished at Blenheim, and here for 
several Aveeks Esmond lay in Axry 
great danger of his life ; the Avound 
Avas not Axry great from Avhich he 
suffered, and the ball extracted by 
the surgeon on the spot Avhere our 
young gentleman received it ; but a 
fever set in next day, as he Avas lying 
in hospital, and that almost carried 
him UAvay. Jack LockAvood said he 
talked in the Avildest manner during 
his delirium; that he called himself 
the Marquis of Esmond, and seizing 
one of the surgeon’s assistants who 
came to dress his Avounds, swore that 
he Avas Madam Beatrix, and that he 
Avould make her a duchess if .she 
would but say yes. He was passing 

* My mistress, before I went this cam- 
paign, sent me John Lockwood out of Wal- 
cote, who hath ever since remained with me. 

“H. E. 


the days in these crazy fancies, and 
vana soinnia, Avhilst the army Avas 
singing “ Te Deum ” for the A'ictory, 
and those famous festivities Avere 
taking place at Avhich our Duke, uoav 
made a Prince of the Empire, Avas 
entertained by the King of the Ro- 
mans and his nobility. His Grace 
went home by Berlin and Hanover, 
and Esmond lost the festivities Avhieh 
took place at those cities, and Avhich 
his general shared in company of 
the other general officers Avho travelled 
Avith our great captain. When he 
could move, it Avas by the Duke of 
Wirtemburg’s city of Stuttgard that 
he made his Avay homcAvards, revisit- 
ing Heidelberg again, av hence he Avent 
to Manheim, and hence had a tedious 
but easy Avater journey doAvn the 
riAxr of Rhine, which he had thought 
a delightful and beautiful voyage 
indeed, but that his heart Avas longing 
for home, and something far more 
beautiful and delightful. 

As bright and Avelcome as the eyes 
almost of his mistress shone the lights 
of HarAvich, as the packet came in 
from Holland. It Avas not many 
hours ere he, Esmond, Avas in Lon- 
don, of that you may be sure, and 
received Avith open arms by the old 
DoAvager of Chelsey, Avho voAved, in 
her jargon of French and English, 
that he had the air noble, that his 
pallor embellished him, that he Avas 
an Amadis and deserA'cd a Gloriana ; 
and oh ! flames and darts ! Avhat Avas 
his joy at hearing that his mistress 
Avms come into Avaiting, and Avas noAV 
Avith her Majesty at Kensington ! 
Although Mr. Esmond had told Jack 
LockAvood to get horses and they 
Avould ride for Winchester that night, 
Avhen he heard this ncAvs he counter- 
manded the horses at once ; his busi- 
ness lay no longer in Hants ; all his 
hope and desire lay Avithin a coujile 
of miles of him in Kensington I’ark 
Avail. Poor Harry had never looked 
in the glass before so eagerly to see 
Avhether he had the hel air, and his 
paleness really did become him ; he 
never took such pains about the curl 


150 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


of liis periwigs, and the taste of his 
embroidery and point-lace, as now, 
before Mr. Amadis j>rcsented liiinself 
to Madam Gloriana. Was tlie lire 
of the French lines lialf so murderous 
as the killing glances from her Lady- 
ship's eyes i Oh ! darts and rap- 
tures, how beautiful were they ! 

And as, before the blazing sun of 
morning, the moon fades away in 
the sky almost invisible, Esmond 
thought, with a blush jjerhaps, of 
another sweet pale face, sad and faint, 
ajid fading out of sight, with its 
sweet fond gaze of affection ; such a 
last look it seemed to cast as Eury- 
dice might have given, yearning after 
her lover, when Fate and Pluto 
summoned her, and she passed away 
Snto the shades. 


— ♦ — 

CHAPTER X. 

AN OLD STORY ABOUT A FOOL AND A 
WOMAN. 

Ant taste for pleasure wdiich Es- 
mond had (and he liked to clesipere in 
loco, neither more nor less than most 
young men of his age) he could now 
gratify to the utmost extent, and in 
the best company which the town 
afforded. When the army went into 
winter quarters abroad, those of the 
officers who had interest or money 
easily got leave of absence, and found 
it much pleasanter to spend their 
time in Pall Mall and Hyde Park, 
than to pass the winter away behind 
the fortifications of the dreary old 
Flanders towns, where the English 
troops were gathered. Yachts and 
packets passed daily between the 
Dutch and Flemish ports and Har- 
wich ; the roads thence to London 
and the great inns were crowded 
\vith army gentlemen ; the taverns 
and ordinaries of the town swarmed 
with red-coats ; and our great Duke’s 
levees at St. James’s Avere as throng- 
ed as they had been at Ghent and 
Brussels, where Ave treated him, and 


he ns, with the grandeur and ceremony 
of a soA'ereign. Though Esmond had 
been appointed to a lieutenancy in 
the Fusileer regiment, of Avhich that 
celebrated officer. Brigadier John 
Richmond Webb, Avas colonel, he had 
ncA^er joined the regiment, nor been 
introduced to its excellent command- 
er, though they had made the same 
campaign together, and been engaged 
in the same battle. But being aide- 
de-camp to General Lumley, who 
commanded the diA’ision of horse, and 
the army marching to its point of 
destination on the Danube by difier- 
ent routes, Esmond had not fallen in, 
as yet, Avith his commander and 
future comrades of the fort ; and it 
Avas in London, in Golden Scpiarc, 
Avhere Major-General Webb lodged, 
that Captain Esmond had the honor 
of first paying his respects to his 
friend, patron, and commander of 
after days. 

Those AA'ho remember this brilliant 
and accomplished gentleman may rec- 
ollect his character, upon Avhich he 
prided himself, I think, not a little, 
of being the handsomest man in the 
army ; a poet Avho Avrit a dull copy 
of verses upon the battle of Oudenard'e 
three years after, describing Webb, 
says : — 

“ To noble danger Webb conducts the Avay, 
Ills grea,t example all his troops obey ; 
Before the front the general sternly rides, 
With such an air as Mars to battle strides; 
Propitious Heaven must sure a hero save, 
Like Paris handsome, and like Hector 
. brave.” 

Mr. Webb thought these verses 
quite as fine as Mr. Addison’s on the 
Blenheim Campaign, and, indeed, to 
be Hector a la mode de Paris Avas 
part of this gallant gentleman’s am- 
bition. It Avould haA'c been difficult 
to find an officer in the Avhole army, 
or amongst the splendid courtiers and 
cavaliers of the Maison du Roy, that 
fought under Vendosme and A^iilerov 
in the army opposed to ours, Avho Avas 
a more accomplished soldier and jjcr- 
fect gentleman, and either braver or 
better-looking. And if Mr. AVebb 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


151 


Dclieved of himself what the world 
sail! of him, and was deeply convinced 
of his own indisputable genius, 
beauty, and valor, who has a riglit 
to quarrel Avith him very much ? 
This self-content of his kept him in 
general good-humor, of Avhich his 
friends and dependants got the 
benefit. 

He came of a very ancient Wilt- 
shire family, which he respected above 
all families in the world : he could 
prove a lineal descent from King 
Edward the First, and his first ances- 
tor, Roaldus de Richmond, rode by 
William the Conqueror’s side on 
Hastings field. “ We were gentle- 
men, Esmond,” he iised to say, 
“ Avhen tlie Cliurchills were horse- 
boys.” He Avas a very tall man, 
standing in his pumps six feet three 
inches (in his gi*eat jack-boots, Avith 
his tall fair periwig, and hat and 
father, he could not hav'C been less 
than eight feet high). “ I am taller 
than Churchill,” he Avould say, sur- 
veying himself in the glass, “ and I 
am a better made man ; and if the 
Avomcn Avon’t like a man that hasn’t 
a wart on his nose, faith, I can’t help 
myself, and Churchill has the better 
of me there.” Indeed, he Avas ahvays 
measuring himself Avith the Duke, 
and ahvays asking his friends to 
measure them. And talking in this 
frank Avay, as he Avould do, over his 
cups, Avags Avould laugh and encour- 
age him ; friends avouUI be sorry for 
liiin ; schemers and flatterers Avould 
egg him on, and talebearers carry 
the stories to head-quarters, and 
Aviden the difference Avhich already 
existed there, between the great 
captain and one of the ablest and 
bravest lieutenants he cA^er had. 

His rancor against the Duke Avas 
so apparent, that one saAv it in the 
first half-hour’s conversation Avith 
General Webb; and his lady, who 
adored her General, and thought 
him a hundred times taller, hand- 
somer, and braA^er than a prodigal 
nature had made him, hated the great 
Duke Avith such an iniensity as it be- 


1 comes faithful Avives to feel against 
j their husbands’ enemies. Not that 
; my Lord Duke Avas so yet ; Mr. Webb 
I had said a' thousand things against 
; him, Avhich his superior had ])ar(lon- 
; ed ; and his Grace, Avhose spies Avere 
I everyAvhere, had lieard a thousand 
[ things more that Webb had never 
j said. But it cost this great man 
i no pains to pardon ; and he passed 
! over an injury or a benefit alike easi- 

i 

Should any child of mine take the 
pains to read these his ancestor’s me- 
moirs, I AA'ould not have him judge 
of the great Duke* by Avhat a con- 
temporary has Avritten of him. No 
man hath been so immensely lauded 
and decried as this great statesman 
and AAmrrior ; as, indeed, no man ever 
deserved better the very greatest 
praise and the strongest censure If 
the present Avriter joins with the lat- 
ter faction, very likely .a private pique 
of his own may be the cause of his 
ill-feeling. 

On presenting himself at the Com- 
mander-in-Chief’s leA'ce, his Grace 
had not the least remembrance of 
General Lumley’s aide-de-camp, and 
though he kneAV Esmond’s family 
perfectly Avell, haAung served Avith 
both lords (ray Lord Francis and 
the Viscount Esmond’s father) in 
Flanders, and in the Duke of Y^ork’s 
Guard, the Duke of Marlborough, 
Avho Avas friendly and serviceable to 
the (so-styled) legitimate representa- 
tives of the Viscount CastlcAvood, 
took no sort of notice of the poor 
lieutenant Avho bore their name. A 
AA'ord of kindness or acknowledgment, 
or a single glance of approbation, 
might have changed Esmond’s opin- 
ion of the great man ; and instead of 
a satire, Avhich his pen cannot help 
Avriting, Avho knoAvs but that the 
humble historian might hnA'e taken 
the other side of panegyric ? We 
have but to change the point of AueAv, 

* This passage in the Memoirs of Esmond 
is written on a leaf inserted into the MS. 
book, and dated 1744, probably after he had 
heard of the Duchess’s death. 


152 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


and the jrreatest action looks mean ; 
as we turn the perspec^ive-g!nss, and 
a giant appears a pygmy You may 
describe, but who can tell whether 
your sight is clear or not, or your 
means of information accurate? Had 
the great man said but a word of 
kindness to the small one (as he 
would have stepped out of his gilt 
chariot to shake hands with Lazarus 
in rags and sores, if he thought Laz- 
arus could nave been of any service 
to him/, no doubt Esmond would 
have fought for him with pen and 
sword to the utmost of his might; 
but my Lord the lion did not want 
master mouse at this moment, and so 
Muscipulus went off and nibbled in 
opposition. 

So it was, however, that a young 
gentleman, who, in the eyes of his 
family, and in his own, doubtless, 
was looked upon as a consummate 
hero, found that the great hero of the 
day took no more notice of him than 
of the sm.allest drummer in his 
Grace’s army. The dowager at Chel- 
sey was furious against this neglect 
of her family, and had a great battle 
with Lady Marlborough (as Lady 
Castlewood insisted on calling the 
Duchess). Her Grace was now Mis- 
tress of the Robes to her Majesty, 
and one of the greatest personages in 
this kingdom, as her husband was in 
all Europe, and the battle between 
the two ladies took place in the 
Queen’s drawing-room. 

The Duchess in reply to my aunt’s 
eager clamor, said haughtily, that 
she had done her best for the legiti- 
mate branch of the Esmonds, and 
could not be expected to provide for 
the bastard brats of the fiimily. 

“ Bastards ! ” says the Viscountess, 
in a fury. “ There are bastards 
among the Churchills, as your Grace 
knows, and the Duke of Berwick is 
provided for well enough.” 

“ Madam,” says the Duchess, “you 
know whose fault it is that there are 
^no such dukes in the Esmond family 
too, and how that little scheme of a 
certain lady miscarried.” 


Esmond’s friend, Dick Steele, who 
Avas in Avaiting on the Prince, heard 
the controA'crsy betAveen the ladies at 
court. “ And faith,” says Dick, “1 
think, Harry, thy kinswoman had the 
Avorst of it.” 

He could not keep the story quiet ; 
’tAvas all over the coffee-houses ere 
night; it was printed in a Ncavs Let- 
ter before a month was over, and 
“ The reply of her Grace the Duchess 
of M-rlb-r-gh to a Popish Lady of 
the Court, once a favorite of the late 
K — J-m-s,” Avas printed in half 
a dozen places, Avith a note stating 
that this duchess, Avhen the head of 
this lady’s fiiinily came by his death 
lately in a fatal duel, ncA'er rested 
until she got a pension for the or- 
phan heir and Avidow, from her Maj- 
esty’s bounty.” The squabble did 
not advance poor Esmond’s promo- 
tion much, and indeed made him so 
ashamed of himself that he dared not 
shoAv ids face at the Commander-in- 
Cliicf ’s levees again. 

During those eighteen months 
Avhich had passed since Esmond saAV 
his dear mistress, her good father, the 
old Dean, quitted this life firm in 
his principles to the A'cry last, and 
enjoining his family always to remem- 
ber that the Queen’s brother. King 
James the Third, Avas their rightful 
sovereign. He made a very edifying 
end, as his daughter told Esmond, 
and not a little to her surprise, after 
his death (for he had liAxd always 
A’ery poorly) my Lady found that her 
father had left no less a sum than 
£ 3,000 behind him, which he be- 
queathed TO her. 

With this little fortune Lady 
Castlewood Avas enabled, Avhen her 
daughter’s turn at Court came, to come 
to London, Avhere she took a small 
genteel house at Kensington, in the 
neighborhood of the Court, bringing 
her children with her, and here it Avas 
that Esmond found his friends. 

As for the young lord, his uniA’er- 
sity career had ended rather abrupt- 
ly. Honest Tushcr, his governor, 
had found my young gentleman quite 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


nngovernable. My Lord worried his 
life away with tricks ; and broke out, 
as home-bred lads will, into a hundred 
youthful extravagances, so that Dr. 
Bentley, the new master of Trinity, 
thought fit to write to the Viscountess 
Castlewood, my Lord’s mother, and 
beg her to rcraov'e the young nobleman 
from a college Avhere he declined to 
learn, and where he only did harm by 
his riotous example. Indeed, I believe 
he nearly set fire to NeviTs Court, 
that beautiful new quadrangle of our 
college, which Sir Christoplier AVren 
had lately built. He knocked down 
a proctor’s man that wanted to arrest 
him in a midnight prank ; he gave a 
dinner-party on the Prince of Wales’s 
birthday, which Avas Avithin a fort- 
night of his OAvn, and the twenty 
young gentlemen then present sallied 
out after their Avine, having toasted 
King James’s health Avith open Avin- 
doAvs, and sung caAmlier songs, and 
shouted “ God save tlie King ! ” in 
the great court, so that the master 
came out of his lodge at midnight, 
and dissipated the riotous assem- 
bly. 

This Avas my Lord’s croAvming 
freak, and the Rev. Thomas Tusher, 
domestic chaplain to the Right 
Honorable the Lord Viscount Castlc- 
Avood, finding his prayers and ser- 
mons of no earthly avail to his Lord- 
ship, gave up his duties of gOA^ernor ; 
went and married his brcAver’s AvidoAv 
at Southampton, and took her and 
her money to his parsonage house at 
CastleAvood. 

My Lady could not be angry Avith 
her son for drinking King James’s 
health, being herself a loyal Tory, as 
all the CastleAA'ood family Avere, and 
acquiesced Avith a sigh, knoAving, per- 
haps, that her refusal Avould be of no 
av'ail to the young lord’s desire for a 
military life. She Avould haA^e liked 
him to l)e in Mr. Esmond’s regiment, 
hoping that Harry might act as a 
guardian and adviser to his AvayAvard 
young kinsman ; but my young lord 
Avould hear of nothing but the 
Guards, and a commission was got 
7 * 


la3 

for him in the Duke of Ormond’s 
regiment ; so Esmond found my Lord, 
ensign and lieutenant, Avhen he re- 
turned from Germany after the Blcn- 
iieim campaign. 

The effect produced by both Lady 
CastleAvood’s children Avhen they ap- 
peared in public Avas extraordinary, 
and the Avhole town speedily rang 
Avith their fame : such a beautiful 
couple, it Avas declared, never had 
been seen ; the young maid of honor 
Avas toasted at every table and tavern, 
and as for my young lord, his good 
looks AverecA^en more admired than his 
sister’s. A hundred songs Averc Avrit- 
ten about the pair, and as the fashion 
of that day Avas, my young lord Avas 
}>raiscd in these Anacreontics as 
Avarmly as Bathyllus. You may be 
sure that he accepted very eom])la- 
cently the town’s opinion of him, 
and acquiesced Avith that frankness 
and charming good-humor he ahvays 
showed in the idea that he was the 
prettiest felloAV in all London. 

The old DoAvager at Chclscy, 
though she could never be got to ac- 
knowledge that Mistress Beatrix Avas 
any beauty at all (in Avhich opinion, 
as it may be imagined, a Auast number 
of the ladies agreed Avith her), yet on 
the very first sight of young Castle- 
Avood, she oAvnccl she fell in Ioa^c Avith 
him ; and Henry Esmond, on bis re- 
turn to Chelsey, found himself quite 
superseded in her favor by her younger 
kinsman. The feat of drinking the 
King’s health at Cambridge AAmuld 
haA’e Avon her heart, she said, if noth- 
ing else did. “ Hoav had the dear 
young fclloAv got such beauty 1 ” she 
asked. “ Not from his father, — 
certainly not from his mother. Hoav 
had he come by such noble manners, 
and the perfect W a/r f That countri- 
fied Walcote AvidoAV could never have 
taught him.” Esmond had his own 
opinion about the countrified Walcote 
widoAv, Avho had a quiet grace and 
serene kindness, Avhat had always 
seemed to him the perfection of good- 
breeding, though he did not try to 
argue this point Avith his aunt. But 


154 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


he could agree in most of the praises 
which the enraptured old dowager be- 
stowed on my Lord Viscount, than 
whom he never beheld a more fasci- 
nating and charming gentleman. 
Castlewood had not wit so much as 
enjoyment. “The lad looks good 
things,” Mr. Steele used to say ; 
“ and ins laugh lights up a conversa- 
tion as much as ten repartees from 
Mr. Congreve. I would as soon sit 
over a bottle with him as with Mr. 
Addison ; and rather listen to his talk 
than hear Nicolini. Was ever man 
so gracefully drunk as my Lord 
Castlewood ? I would give anything 
to carry my wine” (though, indeed, 
Dick bore his very kindly, and plenty 
of it, too) “like this incomparable 
young man. When he is sober he is 
delightful; and when tipsy, perfectly 
irresistible.*’ And referTing to his 
favorite, Shakespeare (who was quite 
out of fashion until Steele brought 
him back into the mode), Dick com- 
pared Lord Castlewood to Prince 
Hal, and was pleased to d ab Esmond 
as ancient Pistol. 

The Mistress of the Robes, the 
greatest lady in England after the 
Queen, or even before her Jiajestv, 
as the world said, though she never 
could be got to say a civil word to 
Beatrix, whom she had pre/noted to 
her place as maid of honor, took her 
brother into instant favor. When 
young Castlewood, in his now uniform, 
and looking like a prince out of a 
fairy tale, -went to pay his duty to her 
Grace, she looked at him for a minute 
in silence, the young man blushing 
and in confusion before her, then 
fairly burst out a-crying, and kissed 
him before her daughters and com- 
pany. “ He was my boy’s friend,” 
she said, through iier sobs. “ My 
Blandford might have been like him.” 
And everybody saw, after this mark 
of the Duchess’s favor, that my 
young lord’s promotion was secure, 
and people crowded round the fa- 
vorite’s favorite, who became vainer 
and gayer, and more good-humored 
than ever. 


Meanwhile Madam Beatrix was 
making her comiuests on her own 
side, and amongst them was one poor 
gentleman, who had been shot by 
her young eyes two years before, and 
had never been quite cured of that 
woujid ; he knew, to be sure, how 
hopeless any passion might be, di- 
rected in that quarter, and had taken 
that best, though ignoble, remedium 
amoris, a speedy retreat from before 
the charmer, and a long alisence from 
her; and not being dangerously smit- 
ten in the first instance, Esmond 
pretty soon got the better of his com- 
plaint, and if he had it still, did not 
know he had it, and bore it easily. 
But when he returned after Blenheim, 
the young lady of sixteen, who liad ap- 
peared the most beautiful object his 
eyes had ever looked on two years 
back, was now advanced to a perfect 
ripeness and perfection of beauty, 
such as instantly inthrallcd the poor 
devil, who had already been afugitiA’e 
from lier charms. Then he had seen 
licr but for two days, and tied ; now 
he beheld her day after day, and 
when she was at court watched 
after her ; when she was at home, 
made one of the family party ; when 
she went abroad, rode after her moth- 
er’s chariot; when she apj)eared in 
public places, was in the box near 
her, or in the pit looking at her ; when 
she went to church was sure to be 
there, though he might not listen to 
the sermon, and he ready to hand her 
to her chair if she deigned to accept 
of his services, and select him from a 
score of young men who Avere ahvays 
hanging round about her. When 
she Avent aAA-ay, accompanying her 
Majesty to Hampton Court, a dark- 
ness fell OATr London. Gods, what 
nights has Flsmond passed, thinking 
of her, rhyming about her, talking 
about her ! His friend Dick Steele 
Avas at this time courting tl.c young 
lady, Mrs. Scurlock, Avhom he mar- 
ried ; she had a lodging in Kensington 
Square, hard by my Lady Castle- 
Avood’s house there. Dick and Har- 
ry, being on the same errand, used to 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESI^IOND. 


155 


meat constantly at Kensington. They 
were always prowling about that 
place, or dismally walking thence, 
or eagerly running thither. They 
emptied scores of bottles at the 
“ King’s Arms,” each man prating 
of his love, and allowing the other to 
talk on condition that he might have 
liis own turn as a listener. Hence 
arose an intimacy between them, 
though to all the rest of their friends 
they must have been insufferable. 
Esmond’s verses to “ Gloriana at the 
Harpsichord,” to “ Gloriana’s nose- 
gay,” to “ Gloriana at Court,’^ ap- 
peared this year in the “ Observa- 
tor.” — Have you never read them 1 
They were thought pretty poems, 
and attributed by some to Mr. Pri- 
or. 

This passion did not escape — how 
should it? — the clear eyes of Es- 
mond’s mistress : he told her all ; 
>vhat will a man not do when frantic 
with love? To what baseness will 
he not demean himself ? Wliat 
pangs will he not make others suffer, 
so tliat he may ease his selfish heart 
of a part of its own pain ? Day 
after day he would seek his dear 
mistress, pour insane hopes, supplica- 
tions, rhapsodies, raptures, into her 
car. She listened, smiled, consoled, 
wdth untiring pity and sweetness. 
Esmond Avas the eldest of her chil- 
dren, so she Avas pleased to say; and 
as far her kindness, who ever had or 
Avmuld look for aught else from one 
who AA'as an angel of goodness and 
pity ? After Avhat has been said, 
’t is needless almost to add that poor 
Esmond’s suit Avas unsuccessful. 
What Avas a nameless, penniless lieu- 
tenant to do, Avhen some of the great- 
est in the land were in the field ? Es- 
mond never so much as thought of 
asking permission to hope so far above 
liis reach as he kncAv this prize Avas, 
— and passed his foolish, useless life 
in mere abject sighs and impotent 
longing. What nights of rage, Avhat 
days of torment, of passionate un- 
fulfilled desire, of sickening jeal- 
uusy can he recall ! Beatrix thought 


no more of him than of the lackey 
that followed her chair. His com- 
jdaints did not touch her in the least ; 
liis raptures rather fatigued her ; she 
cared for his verses no more than for 
Dan Chaucer’s, Avho ’s dead these 
ever so many hundred years ; she did 
not hate him ; she rather despised 
him, and just suffered him. 

One day, after talking to Beatrix’s 
mother, his dear, fond, constant mis- 
tress, — for hours, — for all day long, 
pouring out his flame and his pas- 
sion, his despair and rage, retiirnifig 
again and again to the theme, pacing 
the room, tearing up the fioAvers on 
the table, twisting and breaking into 
bits the Avax out of the stand-dish, and 
performing a hundred mad freaks of 
passionate folly ; .seeing his mistress 
at last quite pale and tired out Avith 
sheer Aveariness of compassion and 
Avatching over his fever for the hun- 
dredth time, Esmond seized up his 
hat and took his leave. As ho got 
into Kensington Square, a sense of 
remorse came over him for the Aveari- 
some pain he bad been inflicting upon 
the dearest and kindest friend CA’er 
man had. He Avent back to the house, 
where the servant still stood at the 
open door, ran up the stairs, and 
found his mistress Avbere he had left 
her in the embrasure of the AvindoAv, 
looking OA'er the fields tOAvards Chel- 
sey. She laughed, Aviping aAvay at 
the same time the tears Avhich Avere in 
her kind eyes ; he flung himself doA\m 
on his knees, and buried his head in 
her lap. She had in her hand the 
stalk of one of the floAvers, a pink, 
that he had torn to pieces. “ O, par- 
don me, pardon me, my dearest and 
kindest,” he said ; “lam in hell, and 
you are the angel that brings me a 
drop of Avater.” 

“ I am your mother, you are my 
son, and I loA’e you ahvays,” she said, 
holding her liands OA'cr him : and he 
Avent aAvay comforted ami humbled in 
mind, as he thought of that amazing 
and constant love and tenderness Avith 
Avhich this SAA^eet ladycv^er blessed and 
pursued him. 


156 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE FA3IOUS MR. JOSEPH ADDISON. 

The <^entlemcn ushers had a table 
at Kensington, and the Guard a very 
splendid dinner daily at St. James’s, 
at either of which ordinaries Esmond 
was free to dine. Dick Steele liked 
the Guard-table better than his own 
at tlie gentlemen ushers’, where there 
was less wine and more ceremony ; 
and Esmond had many a jolly after- 
noon in company of his friend, and a 
liundrcd times at least saw" Dick into 
his chair. If there is verity in wane, 
according to the old adage, wdiat an 
amiable - natured character Dick’s 
must have been ! In proportion as 
lie took in wine he overflowed wdth 
kindness. His talk was not witty so 
much as charming. He never said a 
word that could anger anybody, and 
only became the more benevolent the 
more tipsy he grew". Many of the 
w'ags del ided the poor fellow in his 
cups, and chose him as a butt for 
their satire : but there was a kindness 
about him, and a sw'eet playful fancy, 
that seemed to Esmond far more 
charming than the pointed talk of the 
brightest wits, with their elaborate 
repartees and affected severities. I 
think Steele shone rather than spark- 
led. Those famous heaur-fsprits of the 
coffee-houses (Mr. William Congreve, 
for instance, w"hen his gout and his 
grandeur permitted him to come 
among us) w'ould make many brilliant 
hits, — half a dozen in a night some- 
times, — but, like sharp-shooters, w hen 
they had fired their shot, they Avere 
obliged to retire under cover till their 
pieces w'ere loaded again, and w'ait till 
they got another chance at their ene- 
my ; Avhercas Dick never thought that 
his bottle companion was a butt to 
aim at, — only a friend to shake by 
the hand. Tlie })oor fellow’ had half 
the town in his confidence ; eA’crvbody 
knew’ everything about his loves and 
his debts, his creditors or his mistress’s 
obduracy. When Esmond first came 
on to the town, honest Dick was all 
flames and raptures for a young lady, 


a West India fortune, w"hoin he mar- 
ried. In a couple of years the lady 
was dead, the fortune was all but 
spent, and the honest widoAver was as 
eager in pursuit of a neAV paragon of 
beauty as if he had never courted and 
married and buried the last one. 

Quitting the Guard-table one Sun- 
day afternoon, AA’hen by chance Dick 
had a sober fit upon him, he and his 
friend Averc making their Avay doAvn 
Germain Street, and Dick all of a 
sudden left his companion’s arm, and 
ran after a gentleman Avho Avas poring 
OA'cr a folio volume at the l)ook-shop 
near to St. James’s Church. He 
Avas a fair, tall man, in a snuff-colored 
suit, Avith a plain SAvord, very sober, 
and almost shabby in appearance, — 
at least Avhen compared to Captain 
Steele, Avho loved to adorn his jolly 
round person Avith the finest of 
clothes, and shone in scarlet and gbld 
lace. The Captain rushed up, then, 
to the student of the book-stall, took 
him in his arms, hugged him, and 
Avould have kissed him, — (or Dick 
Avas alAvays hugging ami bussing his 
friends, — but the other stepped back 
Avith a flush on his pale face, seeming 
to decline this public manifestaticn 
of Steele’s regard. 

“ My dearest Joe, Avhere hast thou 
hidden thyself (his age?” cries the 
Captain, still holding both his friend’s 
hands ; “ I have been languishing for 
thee this fortnight.” 

“ A fortnight is not an age, Dick,” 
says the other, Acry good-humoredly. 
(He had light blue eyes, extraordinary 
bright, and a face perfectly regular 
and handsome, like a tinted statue.) 
“ And I have been hiding myself — 
whcTC do you think ? ” 

“ What ! not across the Avater, my 
dear Joe ? ” says Steele, Avith a look 
of great alarm : “ thou knoAvest I 
haA’e ahvays — ” 

‘•No,” says his friend, interrupting 
him Avith a smile : “ avc are not come 
to such straits as that, Dick. I have 
been hiding, sir, at a place Avhere 
people ncA’er think of finding you, — 
at my own lodgings, Avhither I am 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND, 


157 


going to smoke a pipe now and drink 
a glass of sack : will your honor 
come? ” 

“ Harry Esmond, come hither,” 
cries out Dick. “ Thou hast heard 
me talk over and over again of my 
dearest Joe, my guardian angel'? ” 

“ Indeed,” says Mr. Esmond, with 
a bow, “ it is not from you only that 
1 have learnt to admire Mr. Addison. 
We loved good poetry at Cambridge 
as well as at Oxford ; and I have 
some of yours by heart, though I 
have put on a red coat . . . . ‘ O qui 
canoro blandius Orpheo vocale duels 
carmen ’ ; shall I go on, sir ? ” says 
Mr. Esmond, Avho, indeed, had read 
and loved the charming Latin poems 
of Mr. Addison, as every scholar 
of that time knew and admired 
them. 

“ This is Captain Esmond who 
was at Blenheim,” says Steele. 

“ Lieutenant Esmond,” says the 
other, with a low bow, “ at Mr. Ad- 
dison’s service.” 

“ I have heard of you,” says Mr. 
Addison, with a smile ; as, indeed, 
everybody about town had heard that 
unlucky story about Esmond’s 
dowager aunt and the Duchess. 

“ We were going to the ‘ George,’ 
to take a bottle before the play,” says 
Steele : “ wilt thou be one, Joe 1 ” 

Mr. Addison said his own lodgings 
were hard by, where he was still rich 
enough to give a good bottle of wine 
to his friends; and invited the two 
gentlemen to his apartment in the 
Haymarket, whither we accordingly 
went. 

“ I shall get credit with my land- 
lady,” says he, with a smile, “when 
she secs two such fine gentlemen as 
you come up my stair.” And he 
politely made his visitors welcome to 
bis apartment, which was indeed but 
a shabby one, though no grandee of 
the land could receive his guests with 
a more perfect and courtly grace 
than this gentleman. A frugal 
dinner, consisting of a slice of meat 
and a penny loaf, was awaiting the 
owner of the lodgings. “ My wine 


is better than my meat,” says Mr. 
Addison ; “ my Lord Halifax sent me 
the Burgundy.” And he set a bottle 
and glasses before his friends, and 
ate his simple dinner in a very few 
minutes, after which the three I'ell to, 
and began to drink. “ You see,” 
says Mr. Addison, pointing to his 
writing-table, whereon was a map of 
the action at Hochstedt, and several 
other gazettes and pamphlets relating 
to the battle, “ that I, too, am busy 
about your affairs. Captain. I am 
engaged as a poetical gazetteer, to say 
truth, and am writing a poem on the 
campaign.” 

So Esmond, at the request of his 
host, told him what he knew about 
the famous battle, drew the river on 
the table aliquo mero, and with the 
aid of some bits of tobacco - pipe 
showed the advance of the left wing, 
where he had been engaged. 

A sheet or two of the verses lay 
already on the table beside our bot- 
tles and glasses, and Dick having 
plentifully refreshed himself from the 
latter, took up the pages of manu- 
script, writ out with scarce a blot or 
correction, in the author's slim, neat 
handwriting, and began to read there- 
from with great emphasis and volu- 
biliry. At pauses of the verse, the 
enthusia'Jtic reader stopped and fired 
off a great salvo of applause. 

Esmond smiled at the enthusiasm 
of Addison’s friend. “You are like 
the German Burghers,” says he, 
“ and the Princes on the Mozelle ; 
when our army came to a halt, they 
always sent a deputation to compli- 
ment the chief, and fired a salute 
with all their artillery from their 
walls.” 

“ And drunk the great chief s health 
afterward, did not they ? ” says Cap- 
tain Steele, gayly filling up a bump- 
er ; he never was tardy at that sort 
of acknowledgment of a friend’s mer- 
it. 

“ And the Duke, since you will 
have me act his Grace’s part,” says 
Mr. Addison, with a smile and some- 
thing of a blush, “ pledged his friends 


158 


THE mSTOEY OF HENEY ESMOND. 


in return. Most Serene Eleetor of 
Covent Garden, I drink to your Ilioli- 
ness’s healtli,” and he filled himself a 
glass. Joseph required searce. more 
pressing than Dick to that sort of 
amusetnent; but the wine never seemed 
at all to fluster Mr. Addison’s brains ; 
it only unloosed his tongue : whereas 
Captain Steele’s head and speech were 
quite overcome by a single bottle. 

No matter what the verses were, 
and, to say truth, Mr. Esmond found 
some of them more than indifferent, 
Dick’s enthusiasm for his chief neA'er 
faltered, and in every line from Ad- 
dison’s pen, Steele found a master- 
stroke. By the time Dick had come 
to that part of the poem, wherein the 
bard describes as blandly as though 
he were recording a dance at the 
opera, or a harmless bout of bucolic 
cudgelling at a village fair, that 
bloody and ruthless part of our cam- 
paign, Avith the remembrance AA'here- 
of every soldier Avho bore a part in it 
must sicken Avith shame, — Avhen we 
Avere ordered to ravage and lay Avastc 
the Elector’s country ; and Avitli fire 
and murder, slaughter and crime, a 
great part of his dominions Avas over- 
run ; when Dick came to the lines, — 

“In vengeance roused the soldier fills his 
liand 

With sword and fire, and rav.iges the land. 

In crackling flames a thousand harvests 
burn, 

A thousand villages to ashes turn. 

To the thick woods the woolly flocks re- 
treat. 

And mixed with bellowing herds confused- 
ly bleat. 

Their trembling lords the common shade 
partake. 

And cries of infants found in every brake. 

The listening soldier fixed in sorrow stands, 

Loath to obey his leader’s just commands. 

The leader grieves, by generous pity 
swayed. 

To see his just commands so well obeyed ” ; 

by thi.s time AAune and friendship had 
brought poor Dick to a perfectly 
maudlin state, and he hiccuj)ed out 
the last line Avith a tenderness that 
set one of his auditors a-laughing. 

“ I admire the license of your 
poets,” says Esmond to Mr. Addison. 


(Dick, after reading of the verses, 
was fain to go off, insisting on kiss- 
ing his tAvo dear friends before his de- 
parture, and reeling UAvay Avith his peri- 
Avig over liis eyes.) “ 1 admire your 
art ;“tlie murder of the campaign is 
done to military music, like a battle 
at the opera, and the virgins shriek 
in harmony, as our victorious grena- 
diers march into their villages. Do 
you knoAv Avhat a scene it Avas ? ” — 
(by this time, perhaps, the Avine had 
Avarmed Mr. Esmond’s head too,) — 
“ Avhat a triumph you are celebrating'? 
Avhat scenes of shame and horror 
Avere enacted, OA’er Avhich the com- 
mander’s genius presided, as calm as 
though he did n’t belong to onr 
sphere? Y^ou talk of the ‘listening 
soldier fixed in sorroAv,’ the ‘leader’s 
grief SAvayed by generous pity ’ ; to 
my belief the leader cared no more 
for'blcating flocks than he did for in- 
fants’ cries, and many of our ruffians 
butchered one or the other Avith equal 
alacrity. I Avas ashamed of my trade 
Avhen I saAV those horrors perpetrated, 
Avhich came under eA’ery man’s eyes. 
Y^ou hcAv out of your polished Akerses 
a stately image of smiling victory ; I 
tell you ’t is an uncouth, distorted, 
savage idol ; hideous, bloody, and 
barbarous. The rites performed be- 
fore it are shocking to think of. Y^ou 
great poets should shoAV it as it is, — 
ugly and horrible, not beautiful and 
serene. O sir, had you made the cam- 
paign, believe me, you never Avould 
have sung it so.” 

During this little outbreak, Mr. Ad- 
dison Avas listening, smoking out of 
his long pipe, and smiling very placid- 
ly. “ What AA’Ould you haA^e ? ” says 
he. “ In our polished days, and ac- 
cording to the rules of art, ’t is impos- 
sible that the Muse should depict tor- 
tures or hegrime her hands Avith the 
horrors of war. These are indicated 
rather than described ; as in the Greek 
tragedies, that, I dare say, you have 
read (and sure there can be no more 
elegant specimens of composition), 
Agamemnon is slain, or Medea’s 
children destroyed, uAvay from tlic 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


159 


scene ; — the chorus occupying the 
stage and singing of the action to pa- 
thetic music. Something of this I at- 
tempt, my dear sir, in my humble 
way : ’t is a panegyric I mean to write, 
and not a satire. Wei-e I to sing as 
you would liave me, the town would 
tear the poet in pieces, and bum his 
book by the hands of the common 
hangman. Do you not use tobacco % 
Of all the weeds grovYn on earth, sure 
the nicotian is the most soothing and 
salutary. Wo must paint our great 
Duke,’" Mr. Addiso.n went on, “ not 
as a man, which no doubt he is, Avith 
Aveaknosses like the rest of us, but as 
a hero. ■’T is in a triumph, not a bat- 
tle, that your humble servant is riding 
his sleek Pegasus. We college poets 
trot, you know, on very easy nags ; 
it hath been, time out of mind, part of 
the poet’s profession to celebrate the 
actions of heroes in verse, and to sing 
the deeds Avhich you men of Avar per- 
form. I must follow the rules of my 
art, and the composition of such a 
strain as this must be harmonious 
and majestic, not familiar, or too near 
the vulgar truth. Si parva licet : if 
Virgil could invoke the divine Augus- 
tus, a humbler poet from the banks of 
the Isis may celebrate a victory and 
a conqueror of our OAvn nation, in 
Avhose triumphs every Briton has a 
share, and Avhose glory and genius 
contributes to every citizen’s individ- 
ual honor. When hath there been, 
since our Henrys’and Edwards’ days, 
such a great feat of arms as that from 
Avhich you yourself have brought 
away marks of distinction ? If ’t is in 
my poAver to sing that song Avorthily, 
I will do so, and be thankful to my 
JMuse. If I foil as a poet, as a Briton 
at least I Avill show my loyalty, and 
fling up my cap and huzza for the 
conqueror : — 

“ ‘ Rheni pacator et Istri 
Omnia in hoc uno variis discordia cessit 
Onlinibua ; laetatureques, plaudicque senator, 
Votaque patncio certant picbeia favori.’ ” 

“ There Avere as brav'e men on that 
field,” says Mr. Esmond (who never 
could be made to love the Duke of 


Marlborough, nor to forget those sto- 
ries Avhicli he used to hear in his 
youth regarding that great chiefs self- 
ishness and treachery) — “ there Avero 
men at Blenheim as good as the lead- 
er, Avhom neither knights nor sena- 
tors applauded, nor voices plebeian or 
patrician faA'ored, and avIio lie there 
forgotten, under the clods. What 
poet is there to sing them % ” 

“ To sing the gallant souls of heroes 
sent to Hades ! ” says Mr. Addison, 
AAuth a smile. “ Would you celebrate 
them all % If I may venture to ques- 
tion anything in such an admirable 
work, the catalogue of the ships in 
Homer hath ahvays appeared to me as 
soineAvhat Avearisome ; Avhat had the 
poem been, supposing the writer had 
chronicled the names of captains, lieu- 
tenants, rank and file? One of the 
greatest of a great man’s qualities is 
success ; ’t is the result of all the oth- 
ers ; ’t is a latent poAver in him Avhich 
compels the favor of the gods, and sub- 
jugates fortune. Of all his gifts I 
atimirc that one in the great Marl- 
borough. To be brave ? every man is 
brave. But in being victorious, as he is, 
I fancy there is something divine. In 
presence of the occasion, the great 
soul of the leader shines out, and the 
god is confessed. Death itself respects 
him, and passes by him to lay others 
loAv. War and carnage flee before 
him to ravage other parts of the field, 
as Hector from before the divine 
Achilles. Y'ou say he hath no pity; 
no more have the gods, Avho are above 
it, and superhuman. The fainting 
battle gathers strength at his aspect ; 
and, Avherever he rides, victory 
charges Avith him.” 

A couple of days after, Avhen Mr. 
Esmond revisited his poetic friend, he 
found his thought, struck out in the 
fei'A^or of conversation, improved and 
shaped into those famous lines, Avhich 
are in truth the noblest in the ])oem 
of the “ Campaign.” As the tAvo gen- 
tlemen sat engaged in talk, Mr. Addi- 
son solacing himself Avith his customa- 
ry pipe, the little maid-servant that 
Avaited on his lodging came up, pre- 


160 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


ceding a gentleman in fine laced 
clothes, that had evidently been figur- 
ing at Court or a great man’s levee. 
Tlie courtier coughed a little at the 
smoke of the pipe, and looked round 
the room curiously, which was shabby 
enough, as was the owner in his worn 
snuff-colored suit and plain tic-wig. 

“ How goes on the magnum opus, 
Mr. Addison "? ” says the Court gentle- 
man on looking down at the papers 
that were on the table. 

“ We were but now over it,” says Ad- 
dison ( the greatest courtier in the land 
could not have a more splendid polite- 
ness, or greater dignity of maimer). 
“ Here is the plan,” says he, “on the 
table : hac ibat Simois, here ran the 
little river Nebel : hie cst Sigeia tellus, 
here are Tallard’s quarters, at the 
bowl of this pipCy. at the attack of 
which Captain Esmond was present. 
I have the honor to introduce him to 
Mr. Boyle; and Mr. Esmond was 
but now depicting aliquo prcelia 
mixta mero, when you came in.” 
In truth, the two gentlemen had been 
so engaged when the visitor arrived, 
and Addison, in his smiling Avay, 
speaking of Mr. Webb, colonel of 
Esmond’s regiment (who command- 
ed a brigade in the action, and great- 
ly distinguished himself there), ivas 
lamenting that he could find never a 
suitable rhyme for Webb, otherwise 
the brigade should have had a place 
in the poet’s verses. “ And for you, 
you arc but a lieutenant,” says Addi- 
son, “ and the Muse can’t occupy her- 
self Avith any gentleman under the 
rank of a field officer.” 

Mr. Boyle was all impatient to 
hear, saying that my Lord Treasurer 
and my Lord Halifax were equally 
anxious ; and Addison, blushing, be- 
gan reading of his verses, and, I 
suspect, knew their Aveak parts as Avell 
as the most critical hearer. When 
he came to the lines describing the 
angel, that 

“ Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, 
And taught the doubtful battle where to 
rage,” 

he read with great animation, look- 


ing at Esmond, as much as to say, 
“You kiioAV Avhere that simile came 
from, — from our talk, and our bottle 
of Burgundy, the other day.” 

The poet’s hearers Avere caught 
Avith enthusiasm, and applauded the 
verses Avith all tlieir might. The gen- 
tleman of the Court sprang up in great 
delight. “ Not a word more, my dear 
sir,” says he. “ Trust me Avith the 
papers, — I’ll defend them Avith my 
life. Let me read them OA^er to my 
Lord Treasurer, Avhom I am appoint- 
ed to see in half an hour. I venture 
to promise, the verses shall lose noth- 
ing by my reading, and then, sir, Ave 
shall see Avhether Lord Halifax has a 
right to complain that his friend’s 
pension is no longer paid.” And 
Avithout more ado, the courtier in lace 
seized the manuscript pages, placed 
them in his breast Avith his ruffled 
hand oxer his heart, executed a most 
gracious AvaA'e of the hat Avith the 
disengaged hand, and smiled and 
boAved out of the room, leaving an 
odor of pomander behind him. 

“ Docs not the chamber look quite 
dark'?” says Addison, surveying it, 
“after the glorious appearance and 
disappearance of that gracious mes- 
senger? Why, he illuminated the 
Avhole room. Your scarlet, Mr. Es- 
mond, Avill bear any light; but this 
threadbare old coat of mine, hoAv 
very Avorn it looked under the glare 
of that splendor! I Avondcr Avhether 
they Avill do anything for me,” he 
continued. “ When I came out of 
Oxford into the Avorld, my patrons 
promised me great things ; and you 
see Avherc their promises haA c landed 
me, in a lodging up tAA'O pair of stairs, 
Avith a sixpenny dinner from the 
cook’s shop. Well, I suppose this 
promise Avill go after the oilier.s, and 
fortune Avill jilt me, as the jade has 
been doing any time these sca'cii 
years. ‘I puff the prostitute aAvay,’ ” 
says he, .smiling, and blowing a cioud 
out of his pipe. “There is no hard- 
ship in poverty, Esmond, that is not 
bearable ; no liardship even in honest 
dependence that an honest man may 


THE HISTOEY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


161 


not put up w'th. I came out of the 
lap of Alma Mater, puffed up with 
her praises of me, and thinking to 
make a figure in the world with the 
parts and learning which had got me 
no small name in our college. The 
world is the ocean, and Isis and 
Charwell are but little drops, of 
which the sea takes no account. My 
reputation ended a mile beyond 
Maudlin Tower ; no one took note 
of me ; and I learned this at least, to 
bear up against evil fortune with a 
cheerful heart. Friend Dick hath 
made a figure in the world, and has 
passed me in the race long ago. 
What matters a little name or a little 
fortune? There is no fortune that a 
philosopher cannot endure. I have 
been not unknown as a scholar, and 
j’ct forced to live by turning bear-lead- 
er. and teaching a boy to spell. 
What then ? The life was not pleas- 
ant, but possible, — the bear was 
bearable. Should this venture fail, 
I will go back to Oxford ; and some 
day, when you are a general, you 
shall find me a curate in a cassock 
and bands, and I shall welcome your 
honor to my cottage in the country, 
and to a mug of penny ale. ’T is 
not poverty that ’s the hardest to bear, 
or the least happy lot in life,’-^ says 
Mr. Addison, shaking the ash out of 
his pipe. “ See, my pipe is smoked 
out. Shall we have another bottle ? 
I have still a couple in the cupboard, 
and of the right sort. No more ? — 
let us go abroad and take a turn on 
the Mall, or look in at the theatre and 
see Dick’s comedy. ’T is not a 
masterpiece of wit; but Dick is a 
good fellow, though he doth not set 
the Thames on fire.’^ 

Within a month after this day, Mr. 
Addison’s ticket had come up a 
prodigious prize in the lottery of life. 
All the town was in an uproar of 
admiration of his poem, the “ Cam- 
paign,” which Dick Steele was 
spouting at every coffee-house in 
Whitehall and Covent Garden. The 
wits on the other side of Temple 
Bar saluted him at once as the 


I greatest poet the world had seen for 
ages ; the people huzzaed for Marl- 
borough and for Addison, and, more 
than this, the party in power provided 
for the meritorious poet, and Mr. 
Addison got the appointment of 
Commissioner of Excise, which the 
fimious Mr. Locke vacated, and rose 
from this place to other dignities and 
honors ; his prosperity from hence- 
forth to the end of his life being 
scarce ever interrupted. But I doubt 
whether he was not happier in his 
garret in the Ilaymarket, than ever 
he was in his splendid palace at 
Kensington ; and 1 believe the fortune 
that came to him in the shape of the 
countess his wife was no better than 
a shrew and a vixen. 

Gay as the town was, ’t was but a 
dreary place for Mr. Esmond, whether 
his charmer was in or out of it, and 
he was glad when his general gave 
him notice that he Avas going back to 
his division of the army Avhich lay in 
Avinter quarters at Bois-le-Duc. His 
dear mistress bade him fiirewell Avith 
a cheerful face ; her blessing he knew 
he bad aKvays, and Avheresoever fate 
carried him. Mistress Beatrix Avas 
away in attendance on her Majesty 
at Hampton Court, and kissed her 
fair finger-tips to him, by Avay of 
adieu, Avhen he rode thither to take 
his leave. She received her kinsman 
in a Avai ting- room, Avhere there Avere 
half a dozen more ladies of the Court, 
so that his high-flown speeches, had 
he intended to make any (and A^cry 
likely he did), Avere impossible; and 
she announced to her friends that her 
cousin Avas going to the army, in as 
easy a manner as she Avould have said 
he Avas going to a chocolate-house. 
He asked Avith a rather rueful face, 
if she had any orders for the army ? 
and she Avas pleased to say that she 
Avould like a mantle of Mechlin lace. 
She made him a saucy courtesy in 
reply to his OAvn dismal boAv. She 
deigned to kiss her finger-tips from 
the AvindoAv, where she stood laughing 
with the other ladies, and chanced to 
K 


162 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


SCO him as he made his way to the 
“ Toy.” The Dowager at Chclsey 
was not sorry to part with him tliis 
time. “Mon cher, vous etes triste 
comme iin sermon,” she did him the 
honor to say to him ; indeed, gentle- 
men in his condition are by no means 
amusing companions, and besides, 
the fickle old woman liad noAv found 
a mucli more amiable faA’oritc, and 
raffhled for her darling lieutenant of 
the Guard. Frank remained behind 
for a while, and did not join the army 
till later, in the suite of his Grace the 
Commander - in - Chief. His dear 
mother, on the last day before Es- 
mond went away, and when the 
three dined together, made Esmond 
promise to befriend her boy, and 
besought Frank to take the example 
of his kinsman as of a loyal gentle- 
man and braAe soldier, so she Avas 
pleased to say ; and at parting, 
betrayed not the least sign of faltering 
or AV'eakness, though, God knoAvs, 
that fond heart aauis fearful enough 
AAdien others Avere concerned, though 
so resolute in bearing its OAvn pain. 

Esmond’s general embarked at 
IlarAvich. ’T Avas a grand sight to 
see Mr. Webb dressed in scarlet on 
the deck, Avaving his hat as our yacht 
put off, and the guns saluted from 
the shore. Harry did not see his 
viscount again, until three months 
after, at Bois-lc-Duc, Avhen his Grace 
the Duke came to take the command, 
and Frank brought a budget of iiGavs 
from home : hoAv he had supped Avith 
this actress, and got tired of that; 
hoAV he had got the better of Mr. St. 
John, both OA^er the bottle, and Avith 
Mrs. Mountford, of the Hayrnarket 
Theatre (a A'eteran charmer of fifty, 
Avith Avhom the young scapegrace 
chose to fancy himself in love) ; hoAv 
his sister Avas alAA\ays at her tricks, 
and had jilted a young baron for an 
old earl. “ I can’t make out Beatrix,” 
he said ; “ she cares for none of us, 
— she only thinks about herself ; she 
is never hajApy unless she is quarrel- 
ling ; but as for my mother, — my 
mother, Harry, is an angel.” Harry 


tried to impress on the young fellow 
the necessity of doing everything in 
his poAver to please that angel ; not 
to drink too much ; not to go into 
debt ; not to run after the pretty 
Flemish girls, and so forth, as became 
a senior speaking to a lad. “ Bu^ 
Lord bless thee ! ” the boy said ; “ I 
may do Avhat I like, and 1 knoAv she 
Avill loA^e me all the same ” ; and so, 
indeed, he did Avhat he liked. Every- 
body spoiled him, and his grave 
kinsman as much as the rest. 


CHAPTEB XII. 

I GET A COMPANY IN THE CAM- 
PAIGN OF 170G. 

On Whit-Sunday, the famous 23d 
of May, 1706, my young lord first 
came under the fire of the enemy, 
Avhorn Ave found posted in order of 
battle, their lines extending three 
miles or more, over the high ground 
behind the little Gheet llLer, and hav- 
ing on his left the little village of 
Anderkirk or Autre-cglisc, and on his 
right Ramillies, Avhich has given its 
name to one of the most brilliant and 
disastrous days of battle that history 
CA’cr hath recorded. 

Our Duke here once more met his 
old enemy of Blenheim, the Bavarian 
Elector and the Marechal Villcroy, 
over whom the Prince of Savoy had 
gained the famous victory of Chiari. 
AVhat Englishman or Frenchman 
doth not knoAv the issue of that day ? 
Having chosen his OAAm ground, hav- 
ing a force superior to the English, 
and besides the excellent Spanish and 
Bavarian troops, the Avhole Maison-du- 
Roy Avithhim, the most splendid body 
of horse in the Avorld, — in an hour 
(and in spite of the prodigious gallan- 
try of the French Royal Househohl, 
Avlio charged through the centre of our 
line and broke it), this magnificent 
army of Villcroy Avas utterly routed 
by troops that had been marching for 
tAvelve hours, and by the intrepid skill 
of a commander, Avho did, indeed. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


163 


seem in the presence of the enemy to 
be the very Genius of Victory. 

I think it was more from conviction 
than policy, thoilj^h that policy Avas 
surely the most prudent in the world, 
that the {xreat Duke always spoke of 
his victories with an extraordinary 
modesty, and as if it was not so much 
his own admirable genius and courage 
which achieved these amazing suc- 
cesses, hut as if he was a special and 
fatal instrument in the hands of Provi- 
dence, that willed irresistibly the 
enemy’s overthrow. Before his ac- 
tions he always had the church service 
read solemnly, and professed an un- 
doubting belief that our Queen’s arms 
Avere blessed and our victory sure. 
All the letters which he writ after his 
battles show aAve rather than exulta- 
tion ; and he attributes the glory of 
these achievements, about which I 
have heard mere petty officers and 
men bragging with a pardonable vain- 
glory, in no wise to his own bravery or 
skill, but to the superintending pro- 
tection of Heaven, which he ever 
seemed to think was our especial all3^ 
And our army got to belicA^e so, and 
the enemy learnt to think so too ; for 
we never entered into a battle without 
a perfect confidence that it was to end 
in a victory* nor did the French, after 
the issue of Blenheim, and that aston- 
ishing triumph of Ramillies, ever meet 
us without feeling that the game was 
lost before it Avas begun to be played, 
and that our general’s fortune Avas ir- 
resistible. Here, as at Blenheim, the 
Duke’s charger Avas shot, and ’t Avas 
thought for a moment he Avas dead. 
As he mounted another, Binfield, his 
master of the horse, kneeling to hold 
his Grace’s stirrup, had his head shot 
aAvay by a cannon-ball. A French 
gentleman of the Koyal Household, 
that Avas a prisoner Avitli us, told the 
Avriter that at the time of the charge 
of the Household, Avhen their horse 
and ours Avere mingled, an Irish offi- 
cer recognized the Prince-Duke, and 
calling out, — “ Marlborough, Marl- 
borough ! ” fired Ills pistol at him a 
bout-portant, and that a score more 


carbines and pistols Avere discharged 
at him. Not one touched him : he 
rode through the French Cuirassiers 
SAvord in hand, and entirely unhurt, 
and calm and smiling, rallied the 
German Hoi*se, that Avas reeling be- 
fore the enemy, brought these and 
tAV'cnty squadrons of Orkney’s back 
upon them, and droA^e the French 
across the river, again leading the 
charge himself, and defeating the only 
dangerous move the French made 
that day. 

Major-General "VVebb commanded 
on the left of our line, and had his 
OAvn regiment under the orders of 
their beloved colonel. Neither he nor 
they belied their character for gal- 
lantry on this occasion ; but it Avas 
about his dear young lord that Es- 
mond Avas anxious, never having 
sight of him save once, in the Avhole 
course of the day, Avhen he brought 
an order from the Commander-iu- 
Chief to Mr. Webb. When our horse, 
liaving charged round the right Hank 
of the enemy by Overkirk, had throAvn 
him into entire confusion, a general 
adA*ancc Avas made, and our Avhole 
line of foot, crossing the little river 
and the morass, ascended the high 
ground Avhere the French Avere posted, 
cheering as they Avent, the enemy re- 
treating before them. ’T Avas a ser- 
vice of more glory than danger, the 
French battalions never AAmiting to 
exchange push of pike or bayonet 
AA'ith ours ; and the gunners flying 
from their pieces, Avhich our line left 
behind us as they advanced, and the 
French fell back. 

At first it Av*as a retreat orderly 
enough ; but presently the retreat be- 
came a rout, and a frightful slaughter 
of the French ensued on this panic : 
so that an army of sixty thousand 
men Avas utterly crushed an<l de- 
stroyed m the course of a couple of 
hours. It Avas as if a hurricane had 
seized a compact numerous fleet, 
flung it all to the Avinds, shattered, 
sunk, and annihilated it : afflavit Deus, 
et dissipati sunt. The French army 
of Flanders Avas gone, their artillery^ 


164 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


their standards, their treasure, pro- 
visions, and ammunition were all left 
behind them : the poor devils had 
even tied without their soup-kettles, 
whieh are as muc h the palladia of the 
French infantry as of the Grand 
Seignior’s Janissaries, and round 
whieh they rally even more than 
round their lilies. 

The pursuit, and a dreadful carnage 
Avhich ensued (for the dregs of a 
battle, however brilliant, are ever a 
base residue of rapine, cruelty, and 
drunken plunder), was carried far 
beyond the field of Ramillies. 

Honest Lockwood, Esmond’s ser- 
vant, no doubt wanted to be among 
the marauders himself and take his 
share of the booty : for when, the 
action over, and the troops got to 
their ground for the night, the Cap- 
tain bade Lockwood get a horse, he 
asked, with a very rueful countenance, 
whether his honor would have him 
come too ; but his honor only bade 
him go about his own business, and 
Jack hopped away quite delighted 
as soon as he saw bis master mounted. 
Esmond made liis way, and not Avith- 
out danger and difficulty, to his 
Grace’s head-cpiarters, and found for 
himself very quickly Avhere the aide- 
de-camps’ quarters were, in an out- 
building of a fiirm, where several of 
these gentlemen were seated, drink- 
ing and singing, and at supper. If 
he had any anxiety about his boy, 
’t Avas relieved at once. One of the 
gentlemen Avas singing a song to a 
tune that Mr. Earquhar and Mr. 
Gay both had used in their admirable 
comedies, and very popular in the 
army of that day ; and after the song 
came a chorus, “ Over the hills ami 
fiir away ” ; and Esmond heard 
Frank’s fresh voice, soaring, as it 
were, over the songs of the rest of 
the young men, — a A'oice that had 
ahvays a certain artless, indescribable 
pathos Avith it, and indeed Avhieh 
caused Mr. Esmond’s eyes to fill Avith 
tears noAv, out of thankfulness to 
God the child was safe and still alive 
to laugh and sing. 


When the song AV'as over Esmond 
entered the room, Avherc he knew 
several of the gentlemen present, and 
there sat my young lord, having 
taking otf his cuirass, his Avaistcoat 
open, his face flushed, his long yellow 
hair hanging OA'cr his shoulders, drink- 
ing Avith the rest ; the youngest, gay- 
est, handsomest there. As soon as 
he saAv Esmond, he clapped doAvn his 
glass, and running tOAvards his friend, 
put both his arms round him and 
embraced him. The other’s voice 
trembled Avith joy as he greeted the 
lad ; he had thought but noAv as he 
stood in the courtyard under the 
clear-shining moonlight : “ Great God ! 
what a scene of murder is here Avithin 
a mile of us ; Avhat hundreds and 
thousands have faced danger to-day ; 
and here are these lads singing over 
their cups, and the same moon that is 
shining OA'er yonder horrid field is 
looking doAvn on Walcote very likely, 
Avhile my Lady sits and thinks about 
her boy that is at the Avar.” As Es- 
mond embraced his young pupil uoav, 
’t Avas Avith the feeling of quite re- 
ligious thankfulness and an almost 
paternal pleasure that he beheld him. 

Round his neck Avas a star Avith a 
striped ribbon, that Avas made of 
small brilliants and might be Avorth a 
hundred croAvns. “Look,” says he, 
“Avon’t that be a pretty present for 
mother ? ” 

“ Who gaA’e you the Order? ” says 
Harry, saluting the gentleman : “ did 
you Avin it in battle ? ” 

“I Avon it,” cried the other, “Avith 
my SAVord and my spear. There Avas 
a mousquetaire that had it round his 
neck, — such a big mousquetaire, as big 
as General Webb. I called out to him 
to surrender, and that 1 ’d give him 
quarter : he called me a petit polisson 
and fired his pistol at me, and then 
sent it at my head Avith a curse. 1 
rode at him, sir, drove my sword right 
under his arm-hole, and broke it in 
the rascal’s body. I found a purse in 
his holster Avith sixty-five Louis in it, 
and a bundle of love-letters, and a 
flask of Hungary-Avatcr. Vive la 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


165 


gueire! there are the ten pieces you 
lent me. I should like to have a fight 
every day”; and he pulled at his 
little mustache and bade a servant 
bring a supper to Captain Esmond. 

Harry fell to with a very good ap- 
petite; he had tasted notliing since 
twenty hours ago, at early dawn. 
Master Grandson, who read this, do 
you look for the history of battles and 
sieges 1 Go, find them in the proper 
books ; this is only the story of your 
grandfather and his family. Far 
more pleasant to him than the victory, 
though for that too he may say memi- 
nissejuvat, it was to find that the day 
was over, and his dear young Castle- 
wood was unhurt. 

And would you, sirrah, wish to 
know how it was that a sedate Cap- 
tain of Foot, a studious and rather 
solitary bachelor of eight or nine 
and twenty years of age, who did not 
care very much for the jollities which 
his comrades engaged in, and was 
never known to lose his heart in any 
garrison-town, — should you wish to 
know why such a man had so pro- 
digious a tenderness, and tended so 
fondly a boy of eighteen, wait, my 
good friend, until thou art in love 
with thy school-fellow’s sister, and 
then sec how mighty tender thou 
wilt be towards him. Esmond’s 
General and his Grace the Prince- 
Duke were notoriously at variance, 
and the former’s friendship was in 
no wise likely to advance any man’s 
promotion of whose services Webb 
spoke well ; but rather likely to in- 
jure him, so the army said, in the fa- 
vor of the greater man. However, 
Mr. Esmond had the good fortune to 
be mentioned very advantageously by 
Major-General Webb in his report af- 
ter the action ; and the Major of his 
regiment and two of the Captains hav- 
ing been killed upon the day of Ra- 
in illies, Esmond, who was second of 
the lieutenants, got his company, and 
had tlic honor of serving as Captain 
Esmond in the next campaign. 

My Lord went home in the winter, 
but Esmond was afraid to follow 


I him. His dear mistress wrote him 
letters more than once, thanking him, 
as mothers know how to thank, for 
his care and protection of her l)oy, 
extolling Esmond’s own merits with 
a great deal more praise than they 
deserved ; for he did his duty no bet- 
ter than any other officer ; and speak- 
ing sometimes, though gently and 
cautiously, of Beatrix. News came 
from home of at least half a dozen 
grand matches that the beautiful 
maid of honor was about to make. 
She was engaged to an carl, our gen- 
tlemen of St. James’s said, and then 
jilted him for a duke, who, in his 
turn, had drawn off. Earl or duke 
it might be who should win this 
Helen, Esmond knew she would 
never bestow herself on a poor Cai> 
tain. Her conduct, it was clear, was 
little satisfactory to her mother, who 
scarcely mentioned her, or else the 
kind lady thought it was best to say 
nothing, and leave time to work out its 
cure. At any rate, Harry was best 
away from the fatal object which al- 
ways wrought him so much mischief; 
and so he never asked for leave to go 
home, but remained with his regi- 
ment that was garrisoned in Brus- 
sels, which city fell into our hands 
when the victory of Ramillies drove 
the French out of Flanders. 

— • — 

CHAPTER XIII. 

I MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE IN 

FLANDERS, AND FIND MY MOTH- 
ER’S GRAVE AND MY OWN CRA- 
DLE THERE. 

Being one day in the Church of 
St. Gudulc, at Brussels, admiring the 
antique splendor of the architecture 
(and always entertaining a great ten- 
derness and reverence for the Mother 
Church, that hath been as wickedly 
persecuted in England as ever she 
herself persecuted in the days of her 
prosperity), Esmond saw kneeling at 
a side altar, an officer in a green uni- 
form coat, very deeply engaged in de- 


166 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


votion. Something familiar in the 
figure and posture of the kneeling 
man struck Captain Esmond, even 
hcfore lie saw the officer’s face. As 
he rose up, putting away into his 
pocket a little black breviary, such as 
jiriests use, Esmond beheld a counte- 
nance so like that of his friend and 
tutor of early days, Father Holt, that 
he broke out into an exclamation of 
astonishment, and advanced a step 
towards the gentleman, who was 
making bis way out of church. The 
German officer, too, looked surprised 
when he saw Esmond, and his face 
from being jiale grew suddenly red. 
By this mark of recognition, the Eng- 
lishman knew that he could not be 
mistaken ; and though the other did 
not stop, but on the contrary rather 
hastily walked away towards the 
door, Esmond pursued him and 
faced him once more, as the officer, 
helping himself to holy water, turned 
mechanically towards the altar, to 
bow to it ere he quitted the sacred 
edifice. 

“My Father!” says Esmond in 
English. 

“ Silence ! I do not understand. I 
do not speak English,” says the other 
in Latin. 

Esmond smiled at this sign of con- 
fusion, and replied in the same lan- 
guage, — “I should know my Father 
in any garment, black or white, 
shaven or bearded ” ; for the Austrian 
officer was habited quite in the mil- 
itary manner, and had as w.arlike a 
mustachio as any Pandour. 

He laughed, — Ave were on the 
church steps by this time, passing 
through the crowd of beggars that 
usually is there holding up little 
trinkets for sale and Avhining for 
alms. “ You speak Latin,” says he, 
“ in the English way, Harry Esmond ; 
you have forsaken tlie old true Ho- 
man tongue you once knew.” His 
tone Avas very frank, and friendly 
quite ; the kind A^oice of fifteen years 
back ; he gave Esmond his hand as 
he spoke. 

“ Others have changed their coats 1 


too, my Father,” says Esmond glan- 
I cingat his friend’s military decoration, 
j “ Hush ! I am Mr. or Captain von 
j Holtz, in the Bavarian Elector’s scr- 
! vice, and on a mission to his Highness 
the Trince of Savoy. You can keep 
a secret I knoAv Ironi old times.” 

“ Captain von Holtz,” says Esmond, 
“I ani your very humble servant.” 

“And you, too, have changed your 
coat,” continues the other iu his laugh- 
ing Avay ; “ I have heard of you at 
Cambridge and afterAvards : Ave have 
friends everyAvhere ; and I am told 
that Mr. Esmond at Cambridge Avas 
as good a fencer as he Avas a bad 
theologian.” (So, thinks Esmond, 
my old muitre d’armes Avas a Jesuit, as 
they said.) 

“ Perhaps you arc right,” says the 
other, reading his thoughts quite as 
he u.scd to do in old days; “you 
were all but killed at Hochstedt of a 
Avound in the left side. You AA^ere 
I before that at Vigo, aide-de-camp to 
the Duke of Ormonde. You got your 
company the other day after Hamil- 
lies; your general and the Prince-, 
Duke are not friends ; he is of the 
Webbs of Lydiard Tregozc, in the 
county of York, a relation of my 
Lord St. John. Your cousin, M. de 
CastlcAvood, serA'cd his first campaign 
this year in the Guard ; yes, I do 
knoAv a fcAV things, as you sec.” 

Captain Esmond laughed in his 
turn. “ You luiA'e indeed a curious 
knoAvledge,” he says. A foible of 
Mr. Holt’s, Avho did knoAv more about 
books and men than, ]>erhaps, almost 
any person Esmond had ever met, AA as 
omniscience ; thus in CA’ery point he 
here professed to kiiOAv, he Avas nearly 
right, but not quite. Esmond’s ♦ 
Avound Avas in the right side, not the 
left ; his first general Avas General 
Lumley ; Mr. Webb came out of 
Wiltshire, not out of Yorkshire ; and 
so forth. Esmond did not think fit 
to correct his old master in these 
trifling blunders, but they served to 
gh-e him a knoAvledge of the other’s 
character, and he smiled to think that 
this was his oracle of early days ; 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


167 


only now no longer infallible or 
divine. 

Yes,” continues Father Holt, or 
Captain von Holtz, “ for a man who 
lias not been in England these eight 
years, I know what goes on in London 
very well. 'Phe old Dean is dead, 
my Li\dy Castlewood’s father. Do 
you know that your recusant bishops 
Avanted to consccr ate him Hishop of 
Southampton, and that Collier is 
Bishop of Thetford by the same im- 
position 1 The Princess Anno has 
the gout and cats too much ; when 
the King returns, Collier will be an 
archbishop.” 

“ Amen ! ” says Esmond, laughing; 
“ and I hope to see your Eminence no 
longer in jack-boots, but red stockings, 
at Whitehall.” 

“ You are always with us, — I know 
that, — I heard of that when you were 
at Cambridge ; so was the late lord ; 
so is the young Viscount.” 

“ And so was my father before me,” 
said Mr. Esmond, looking calmly at 
the other, Avho did not, however, show 
the least sign of intelligence in his 
impenetrable gray eyes, — hoAv Avell 
Harry remembered them and their 
look ! only crows’-feet were wrinkled 
round them, — marks of black old 
Time had settled there. 

Esmond’s face chose to show no 
more sign of meaning than the 
Father’s. There may have been on 
the one side and the other just the 
faintest glitter of recognition, as you 
see a bayonet shining out of an am- 
bush ; but each party fell back, when 
everything was again dark. 

“ And you, mon capitaine, where 
have you been ? ” says Esmond, turn- 
ing away the conversation from this 
dangerous ground, where neither 
chose to engage. 

“ I may have been in Pekin,” says 
he, “ or I may have been in Para- 
guay, — who knows Avherc ? I am 
now Captain von Holtz, in tlie servdce 
of his Electoral Highness, come to 
negotiate exchange of prisoners with 
his Highness of Savoy.” 

’T was well known that very many 


officers in onr army were well-affected 
towards the young king at St. (ier- 
mains, whose right to the throne was 
undeniable, and Avhose accession to 
it, at the death of his sister, by far the 
grea'ter part of the English people 
j would have preferred, to the having a 
petty German prince for a sovereign, 
about whose cruelty, rapacity, boorish 
manners, and odious foreign Avays, a 
thousaiul stories Averc current. It 
AA'ounded our English pride to think 
that a shabby High-Dutch duke, 
Avhose revenues Avere not a tithe as 
great as those of many of the princes 
of our ancient English nobility, Avho 
could not speak a Avord of our lan- 
guage, and whom we chose to rcpre>ent 
as a sort of German boor, feeding on 
train-oil and sour-crout, Avith a bevy 
of mistresses in a barn, should come 
to reign over the proudest and most 
polished people in the Avorld. Were 
we, the conc[uerors of the Grand Mon- 
arch, to submit to that ignoble domi- 
nation ? What did the Hanoverian’s 
Protestantism matter to us? Was it 
not notorious (avc Avere told and led to 
believe so) that one of the daughters 
of this Protestant hero Avas being bred 
up Avith no religion at all, as yet, and 
ready to be raacle Lutheran or Roman, 
according as the husband might be* 
Avhom her parents should find for her ? 
This talk, very idle and abusi've much 
of it Avas, Avent on at a hundred mess- 
tables in the army ; there Avas searce an 
ensign that did not hear it, or join in it, 
and everybody knew, or affected to 
know, that the Commander-in-Chief 
himself had relations AA'ith his nepheAA’’, 
the Duke of Beinvick (’t Avas by an 
Englishman, thank God, that Ave AA'ere 
beaten at Almanza)., and that his 
Grace Avas most anxious to restore 
the royal race of his benefactors, and 
to repair his former treason. 

This is certain, that for a consider- 
able period no officer in the Duke’s 
army lost faA'or Avith the Commander- 
in-Chief for entertaining or proclaim- 
ing his loyalty tOAvards the exiled 
family. When the Chevalier de St. 
George, as the King of England called 


1G8 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


liimsclf, came with the dukes of the 
French blood royal, to join tlie Frencli 
army under Vendosme, hundreds of 
ours saw him and cheered him, and 
wo all said he Avas like his father in 
this, who, seeing the action of La 
Hogue fought between the French 
ships and ours, Avas on the side of his 
native country during the battle. But 
this, at least the ChcA^alier knew, and 
every one kneAv, that, hoAvever Avell 
our troops and their general might be 
inclined toAvards the prince person- 
ally, in the face of tlie enemy there 
Avas no question at all. Wherever 
my Lord Duke found a French army, 
he Avould tight and beat it, as he did 
at Oudenarde, tAvo years after Kamil- 
lies, Avhere his Grace achieved an- 
other of his transcendent victories; 
and the noble young prince, Avho 
charged gallantly along Avith the 
magnificent Maison-du-Koy, sent to 
compliment his conquerors after the 
action. 

In this battle, where the young 
Electoral Prince of Hanover behaved 
himself A’ery gallantly, fighting on 
our side, Esmond’s dear General 
Webb distinguished himself prodi- 
giously, exhibiting consummate skill 
and coolness as a general, and fight- 
ing Avith the personal bravery of a 
common soldier. Esmond’s good 
luck again attended him ; he escaped 
Avithout a hurt, although more than a 
third of his regiment Avas killed, had 
again the honor to be favorably men- 
tioned in his commander’s report, and 
Avas advanced to the rank of major. 
But of this action there is little need 
to speak, as it hath been related in 
every Gazette, and talked of in CA’cry 
hamlet in this country. To return 
from it to the writer’s private affairs, 
Avhich here, in his old age, and at a 
distance, he narrates for his children 
Avho come after him. Before Oude- 
narde, after that chance rencontre Avitli 
Ca])tain Amn Holtz at Brussels, a 
space of more than a year elapsed, 
during Avhich the captain of Jesuits 
and the captain of Webb’s Fusileers 
Avere thrown fery much together. 


Esmond had no difficulty in finding 
out (indeed, the other made no secret 
of it to him, being assured from old 
times of his pupil’s fidelity), tliat the 
negotiator of prisoners was an agent 
from St. Germains, and that he car- 
ried intelligence betAveen great per- 
sonages in our camp and that of the 
French. “ ^My business,” said he, — 
“ and I tell you, both because I can 
trust you, and your keen eyes have 
already discovered it, — is betAvecn 
the King of England and his subjects 
here engaged in fighting the French 
king. As between you and them, all 
the Jesuits in the Avorld Avill not pre- 
A’cnt your quarrelling : fight it out, 
gentlemen. St. George for England, 
I say, — and you knoAv who says so, 
Avherever he may be.” 

I think Holt loAcd to make a pa- 
rade of mystery, as it Avere, and Avould 
appear and disappear at our quarters 
as suddenly as he used to return and 
vanish in the old days at CastlcAvood. 
He had passes between both armies, 
and seemed to know (but Avith that 
inaccuracy Avhich belonged to the 
good Father’s omniscience) equally 
Avell Avhat passed in the French camp 
and in ours*. One day he would give 
Esmond news of a great feste that 
took place in the French quarters, of 
a supper of Monsieur de Rohan’s, 
where there Avas play and violins, and 
then dancing and masques ; the King 
droA-e thither in Marshal Villars’ oAvn 
guinguette. Another day he had the 
ncAvs of his Majesty’s ague : the King 
had not had a fit these ten days, and 
might be said to be Avell. Captain 
Holtz made a visit to England during 
this time, so eager Avas he about ne- 
gotiating prisoners ; and ’t Avas on re- 
turning from this voyage that he be- 
gan to open himself more to Esmond, 
and to make him, as occasion served, 
at their various meetings, several of 
those confidences Avhich are here set 
doAvn all together. 

The reason of his increased confi- 
dence Avas this : upon going to Lon- 
don, the old director of Esmond’s 
aunt, the doAvager, paid her Lady- 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


169 


ship a visit at Chelsey, and there 
learnt from her that Captain Esmond 
was acquainted with the secret of his 
fiimily, and was determined never to 
divulge it. The knowledge of this 
fact raised Esmond in his old tutor’s 
eyes, so Holt was pleased to say, and 
he admired Harry very much for his 
abnegation. 

“ The family at Castlewood have 
done far more for me than my own 
ever did,” Esmond said. “I would 
give my life for them. Why should 
I grudge the only benefit that ’t is in 
my power to confer on them ? ” The 
good Father’s eyes filled with tears at 
this speech, which to the other seemed 
very simple : he embraced Esmond, 
and broke out into many admiring 
expressions ; he said he was a noble 
cceur, that he was proud of him, and 
fond of him as his pupil and friend, — 
regretted more than ever that he had 
lost him, and been forced to leave 
him in those early times, when he 
might have had an influence over 
him, have brought him into that only 
true church to which the Father be- 
longed, and enlisted him in the no- 
blest army in which a man ever en- 
gaged, — meaning his own Society of 
Jesus, which numbers (says he) in its 
troops the greatest heroes the world 
ever knew ; — warriors brave enough 
to dare or endure anything, to en- 
counter any odds, to die an^ death ; 
soldiers that have won triumphs a 
thousand times more brilliant than 
those of the greatest general ; that 
have brought nations on their knees 
to their sacred banner, the Cross ; 
that have achieved glories and palms 
incomparably brighter than those 
awarded to the most splendid earthly 
conquerors, — crowns of immortal 
light, and seats in the high places of 
heaven. 

Esmond was thankful for his old 
friend’s good opinion, however little 
he might share the Jesiiit-fiither’s en- 
thusiasm. “ I have thought of that 
question, too,” says he, ” dear Father,” 
and he took the other’s hand, — 
“ thought it out for myself, as all 


men must, and contrive to do the 
right, and trust to Heaven as devoutly 
in my way as you in yours. Another 
six months of you as a child, and I had 
desired no better. I used to weep upon 
my pillow at Castlewood, as I thought 
of you, and I might have been a brother 
of your order ; and who knows,” Es- 
mond added, with a smile, “ a priest 
in full orders, and w'ith a pair of mus- 
tachios, and a Bavarian uniform.” 

“My son,” says Father Holt, turn- 
ing red, “ in the cause of religion and 
loyalty all disguises are fair.” 

“ Yes,” bro& in Esmond, “ all dis- 
guises are fair, you say ; and all uni- 
forms, say I, black or red, — a black 
cockade or a white one, or a laced 
hat, or a sombrero, with a tonsure 
under it. I cannot believe that St. 
Francis Xavier sailed over the sea in 
a cloak, or raised the dead, — I tried, 
and very nearly did once, but cannot. 
SulFer me to do the right, and to hope 
for the best in my own way.” 

Esmond wished to cut short the 
good Father’s theology, and suc- 
ceeded ; and the other, sighing over 
his pupil’s invincible ignorance, did 
not Muthdraw his affection from him, 
but gave him his utmost confidence, 
— as much, that is to say, as a priest 
can give : more than most do ; for 
he was naturally garrulous and too 
eager to speak. 

Holt’s friendship encouraged Cap- 
tain Esmond to ask, what he long 
wished to know, and none could tell 
him, some history of the poor mother 
whom he had often imagined in his 
dreams, and whom he never knew. 
He described to Holt those circum- 
stances which are already put down 
in the first part of this story, — the 
promise he had made to his dear lord, 
and that dying friend’s confession ; 
and he besought Mr. Holt to tell him 
what he kneAv regarding the poor avo- 
man from Avhom he had been taken. 

“ She Avas of this very town,” 
Holt said, and took Esmond to see 
the street where her father lived, and 
where, as he believed, she was born. 
“In 1676, when your father came 


170 


THE HISTOEY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


hither in the retinue of the late king, 
then Duke of York, and banished 
hither in disgrace, Captain Thomas 
Esmond beeanie acquainted with 
your mother, pursued her, and made 
a victim of her : he hath told me in 
many sxibsequent conversations, wliich 
I felt bound to keep private then, that 
she was a woman of great virtue and 
tenderness, and in all respects a most 
fond, faithful creature. He called 
himself Captain Thomas, having 
good reason to be ashamed of his con- 
duct towards her, and hath spoken to 
me many times Avith sincere remorse 
for that, as Avith fond love for her 
many amiable qualities. He OAvned 
to having treated her very ill ; and 
that at this time his life Avas one of 
profligacy, gambling, and poA'crty. 
She became Avith child of you ; Avas 
cursed by her OAvn parents at that 
discovery ; though she never up- 
braided, except by her involuntary 
tears, and the misery depicted on 
her countenance, the author of her 
Avretchedness and ruin. 

“ Thomas Esmond — Captain 
Thomas, as he Avas called — became 
engaged in a gaming-house braAvl, 
of Avbich the consequence Avas a duel, 
and a Avound so severe that he ncA’cr 
— his surgeon said — could outliA’e 
it. Thinking his death certain, and 
touched Avith remorse, he sent for a 
priest of the very Church of St. Gu- 
dule Avhere I met you ; and on the 
same day, after his making submis- 
sion to our church, Avas married to 
your mother a fcAV Aveeks before you 
Avere born. My Lord Viscount Cas- 
tlcAvood, Marquis jof Esmond, by 
King James’s patent, Avhich I myself 
took to your father, your Lordship 
Avas christened at St. Gudule by the 
§ame cure Avho married your parents, 
and by the name of Henry Thomas, 
son of E. Thomas, officier Anglois, 
and Gertrude Maes. You see you be- 
long to us from your birth, and Avhy I 
did not christen you when you became 
my dear little pupil at CastlcAvood. 

“ Your father’s Avound took a 
favorable turn, — perhaps his con- 


science Avas eased by the right he had 
done, — and to the surprise of the 
doctors he recovered. But as his 
health came back, his Avicked nature, 
too, returned. He Avas tired of the 
poor girl, Avliom he had ruined ; and 
receiAung some remittance from his 
uncle, my Lord the old viscount, then 
in England, he pretended business, 
promised return, and never saAv your 
poor mother more. 

“ He OAvned to me, in confession 
first, but after Avards in talk before 
your aunt, his Avife, else I ncA^er could 
iiaAX disclosed Avhat I noAv tell you, 
that on coming to London he Avrit a 
pretended confession to poor Ger- 
trude Maes, — Gertrude Esmond, — 
of his having been married in Eng- 
land previously, before uniting him- 
self Avith her; said that his name Avas 
not Thomas ; that he Avas about to 
quit Europe for the Virginian planta- 
tions, where, indeed, your family had 
a grant of land from King Charles 
the First ; sent her a supply of money, 
'the half of the last hundred guineas 
he had, entreated her pardon, and 
bade her farcAvell. 

“ Poor Gertrude ncA’cr thought 
that the ncAvs in this letter might be 
untrue as the rest of your father’s 
conduct to her. But though a young 
man of her OAvn degree, Avho kncAV 
her history, and Avhom she liked be- 
fore she saAv the English gentleman 
Avho Avas the cause of all her misery, 
offered to marry her, and to adoj)t 
you as his own child, and gh’e you 
ins name, she refused him. This 
refusal only angered her father, Avbo 
had taken her home ; she never held 
up her head there, being the subject 
of constant nnkindness after her fall ; 
and some dcA'out ladies of her ac- 
quaintance offering to pay a little 
pension for her, she Avent into a con- 
vent, and you Averc put out to nurse. 

“ A sister of the young felloAv Avho 
AA'Ould haA'e adojxtcd you as his son 
Avas the person Avho took charge of 
you. Your mother and this person 
AA^ere cousins. She had just lost a 
child of her pwn, Avhich you replaced. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


171 


your own mother being too sick and 
feeble to feed you ; and presently 
your nurse grew so fond of you, that 
she even grudged letting you visit the 
convent where your mother Avas, and 
Avhere the nuns petted the little in- 
fant, as they pitied and loved its un- 
happy parent. Her vocation became 
stronger every day, and at the end of 
two years she was received as a sister 
of the house. 

“ Your nurse’s fitmily were silk- 
Aveavers out of France, Avhither they 
returned to Arras in French Flanders, 
shortly before your mother took- her 
VOAVS, carrying you Avitli them, then a 
child of three years old. Avas a 
town, before the late vigorous meas- 
vires of the French king, full of Prot- 
estants, and here your nurse’s httlier, 
old Pastoureau, he Avith Avhom you 
afterwards lived at Ealing, adopted 
tlie reformed doctrines, perverting all 
his house Avith him. They Averc ex- 
pelled thence by the edict of his most 
Christian Majesty, and came to Lon- 
don, and set up their looms in Spit- 
tlefields. The old man brought a 
little money Avith him, and carried 
on his trade, but in a poor Avay. He 
Avas a AvidoAver; by this time his 
daughter, a Avidow too, kept house 
for him, and his son and he labored 
together at their vocation. Mean- 
Avhile your father had publicly OAvned 
his conversion just before King 
Charles’s death (in Avhom our Church 
had much such another convert), Avas 
reconciled to my Lord Viscount Cas- 
tlcAVOod, and married, as you knoAV, 
to his daughter. 

“ It chanced that the younger Pas- 
toureau, going Avith a piece of brocade 
to the mercer who employed him, on 
Ludgate Hill, met his old rival coming 
out of an ordinary there. Pastou- 
reau kncAV your father at once, seized 
him by the collar, and upbraided him 
as a villain, who had seduced his 
mistress, and afterAvards deserted her 
and her son. Mr. Thomas Esmond 
also recognized Pastoureau at once, 
besought him to calm his indignation, 
and not to bring a crowd round about 


them ; and bade him to enter into the 
tavern, out of Avhich he had just step- 
ped, Avhen he Avould give him any ex- 
planation. Pastoureau entered, and 
heard the landlord order the draAver 
to shoAv Captain Thomas to a room ; 
it Avas by his Christian name that 
your father Avas familiarly called at 
his taA^ern haunts, Avhich, to say the 
truth, were none of the most reputa- 
ble. 

“ I must tell you that Captain 
Thomas, or my Lord Viscount after- 
Avards, Avas never at a loss for a story, 
and could cajole a woman or a dun 
Avith a volubility, and an air of sim- 
plicity at the same time, of Avhich 
many a creditor of his has been the 
dupe. His tales used to gather veri- 
similitude as he Avent on with them. 
He strung together fact after tact 
Avith a Avonderful rapidity and co- 
herence. It required, saving your 
presence, a very long habit of ac- 
quaintance Avith your father to know 
Avhen his Lordship Avas 1 , — tell- 

ing the truth or no. 

“ He told me Avith rueful remorse 
AAdien he Avas ill, — for the fear of 
death set him instantly repenting, 
and Avith shrieks of laughter Avhen 
he Avas Avell, his Lordship having a 
A’cry great sense of humor, — hoAv in 
half an hour’s time, and before a 
bottle Avas drunk, he had completely 
succeeded in biting poor Pastoureau. 
The seduction he OAvned to : that he 
could not help : he Avas quite ready 
Avith tears at a moment’s Avarning, 
and shed them profusely to melt his 
credulous listener. He Avept for your 
mother even more than Pastoureau 
did, who cried A^ry heartily, poor 
felloAV, as my Lord informed me ; he 
SAvore upon his honor that he had 
tAvice sent money to Brussels, apd 
mentioned the name of the merchant 
Avith whom it Avas lying for poor 
Gertrude’s use. He did not CA^en 
knoAV Avhether she had a child or no, 
or Avhether she Avas alive or dead ; but 
got these facts easily out of honest 
Pastoureau’s ansAvers to him. When 
he heard that she was in a convent. 


172 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


he said he hoped to end his days in 
one liiinself, should he survive his 
■wife, whom he hated, and had been 
forced hy a cruel father to marry ; 
and when he was told that Gertrude’s 
son was alive, and actually in London, 
‘I started,’ says he; ‘for then, 
damme, mv wife was expecting to 
lie in, and I thought should this old 
Put, my father-in-law, run rusty, 
here would be a good chance to 
frighten him.’ 

“ He expressed the deepest gratitude 
to the Pastoureau family for the care 
of the infant: you were now near 
six years old; and on Pastoureau 
bluntly telling him, when he proposed 
to go that instant and sec the darling 
child, that they never wished to see 
his ill-omened face again within their 
doors ; that he mi^ht have the bot^ 
though they should all be very sorry 
to lose him ; and that they would- 
take his money, they being poor, if 
he gave it ; or bring liim up, by God’s 
help, as they had hitherto done, 
without: ho acquiesced in this at 
once, with a sigh, said, ‘ Well, ’t was 
better that the dear child should 
remain with friends who had been so 
admirably kind to him ’ ; and in his 
talk to me afterwards, honestly 
praised and admired the weaver’s 
conduct and spirit; owned that the 
Frenchman was a right fellow, and 
he, the Lord have mercy upon him, a 
sad villain. 

“ Your father,” Mr. Holt went on 
to say, “ was good-natured with his 
money when he had it; and having 
that day received a supply from his 
uncle, gave the weaver ten pieces 
with perfect freedom, and promised 
him further remittances. He took 
down eagerly Pastoureau’s name and 
place of abode in his table-book, and 
when the other asked him for his 
own, gave, with the utmost readiness, 
his name as Captain Thomas, New 
Lodge, Penzance, Cornwall ; he said 
he was in London for a few days only 
on business connected with his wife’s 
property; described her as a shrew, 
though a woman of kind disposition ; 


and depicted his father as a ComisTi 
squire, in an infirm state of health, 
at whose death he hoped for some- 
thing handsome, when he promised 
richly to reward the admirable pro- 
tector of his child, and to provide for 
the boy. ‘ And by Gad, sir,’ he said 
to me in his strange laughing way, 
‘ I ordered a piece of brocade of the 
very same pattern as that which the 
fellow was carrying, and presented it 
to my wife for a morning wrapper, to 
receive company after she lay in of 
our little boy.’ 

“ Your little pension was paid 
regularly enough ; and when your 
father became Viscount Castlewood 
on his uncle’s demise, I was employed 
to keep a watch over you, and ’t was 
at my instance that you were brought 
home. Your foster-mother was 
dead ; her father made acquaintance 
with a woman whom he married, who 
quarrelled with his son. The faithful 
creature came back to Brussels to be 
near the woman he loved, and died, 
too, a few months before her. Will 
you see her cross in the convent 
cemetery 1 The Superior is an 
old penitent of mine, and remembers 
Samr Marie Madeleine fondly still.” 

Esmond came to this spot in one 
sunny evening of spring, and saw, 
amidst a thousand black crosses, 
casting their shadows across the 
grassy mounds, that particular one 
which marked his mother’s resting- 
place. IMany more of those poor 
creatures that lay there had adopted 
that same name, with which sorrow 
had rebaptized her, and which fondly 
seemed to hint their individual story 
of love and grief. He fancied her in 
tears and darkness, kneeling at the 
foot of her cross, under which her 
cares were buried. Surely he knelt 
down, and said his own prayer there, 
not in sorrow so much as in awe (for 
even his memory had no recollection 
of her), and in pity for the pangs 
which the gentle soul in life had been 
made to suffer. To this cross she 
brought them; for this heavenly 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


173 


bridegroom she exchanged the hus- 
band who had wooed her, the traitor 
who had left her. A thousand such 
hillocks lay round about, the gentle 
daisies springing out of the grass 
over them, and each bearing its cross 
and requiescat. A nun, veiled in 
black, was kneeling hard by, at a 
sleeping sister’s bedside (so fresh 
made, that the spring had scarce had 
time to spin a coverlid for it) ; beyond 
the cemetery walls you had glimpses 
of life and the world, and the spires 
and gables of the city. A bird came 
down from a roof o])po3ite, and lit 
first on a cross, and then on the grass 
below it, whence it flew away pres- 
ently with a leaf in its mouth : then 
came a sound as of chanting, from 
the chapel of the sisters hard by ; 
others had long since filled the place 
which poor Mary Magdeleine once 
had there, were kneeling at the same 
stall, and hearing the same hymns 
and prayers in which her stricken 
heart had found consolation. Might 
she sleep in peace, — might she sleep 
in peace; and we, too, Avhen our 
struggles and pains are over! But 
the earth is the Lord’s as the heaven 
is ; we are alike his creatures here 
and yonder. I took a little flower 
off the hillock and kissed it, and 
went my way, like the bird that had 
just lighted on the cross by me, 
back into the world again. Silent 
receptacle of death ; tranquil depth 
of calm, out of reach of tempest and 
trouble ! I felt as one who had been 
walking below the sea, and treading 
amidst the bones of shipw'recks. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE CAMPAIGN OF 1707, 1708. 

During the whole of the year 
which succeeded that in which the 
glorious battle of Ramillies had been 
fought, our army made no movement 
of importance, much to the disgust 
of very many of our ofticers remain- 
ing inactive in Plaiiders, who said 


that his Grace the Captain-General 
h;id had fighting enough, and was all 
for money now, and the enjoyment 
of his five thousand a year and his 
splendid palace at VVoodstock, which 
was now being built. And his Grace 
had sufficient occupation fighting his 
enemies at home this year, where it 
began to be whispered that his favor 
was decreasing, and his duchess losing 
her hold on the Queen, who was trans- 
ferring her royal affections to the 
famous Mrs. Masham, and Mrs. Ma- 
sham’s humble servant, Mr. Harley. 
Against their intrigues, our Duke 
passed a great part of his time intri- 
guing. Mr. Harley was got out of 
office, and his Grace, in so far, had a 
victory. But her Majesty, convinced 
against her will, was of that opinion 
still, of which the poet says people 
arc when so convinced, and Mr. Har- 
ley before long had his revenge. 

Meanwhile the business of fighting 
did not go on any way to the satisfac- 
tion of Marlborough’s gallant lieu- 
tenants. During all 1707, with the 
Pi’cneh before us, we had never 'so 
much as a battle ; our army in Spain 
was utterly routed at Almanza by the 
gallant Duke of Berwick ; and we of 
Webb’s, which regiment the young 
Duke had commanded before his 
father’s abdication, were a little proud 
to think that it Avas our colonel Avho 
had achieved this victory. “ I think 
if I had had Galway’s place, and my 
Pusileers,” says our General, “ Ave 
Avould not have laid down our arms, 
even to our old colonel, as Gahvay 
did”; and Webb’s officers sAvore if 
Ave had had Webb, at least avo Avould 
not have been taken prisoners. Our 
dear old General talked incautiously 
of himself and of others ; a braver or 
a more brilliant soldier never lived 
than he; but he blcAV his honest 
trumpet rather more loudly than be- 
came a commander of his station, 
and, mighty man of valor as he avus, 
shook his great spear and blustei'cd 
before the army too fiercely. 

Mysterious Mr. Holtz Avent off on a 
secret expedition in the early part of 


174 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


1708, with great elation of spirits and 
a prophecy to Esmond that a wonder- 
ful something was about to take 
place. This secret came out on my 
friend’s return to the army, whither 
he brought a most rueful and deject- 
ed countenance, and owned that the 
great something he had been engaged 
upon had failed utterly. He had 
been indeed with that luckless expedi- 
tion of the Chevalier de St. George, 
•who was sent by the French king 
with ships and an army from Dun- 
kirk, and was to have invaded and 
conquered Scotland. But that ill 
wind which ever opposed all the pro- 
jects upon which the Prince ever em- 
barked, prevented the Chevalier’s in- 
vasion of Scotland, as Tis known, 
and blew poor Monsieitr von Holtz 
back into our camp again, to scheme 
and foretell, and to pry about as 
usual. The Chevalier (the King of 
England, as some of us held him) 
went from Dunkirk to the French 
army to make the campaign against 
us. The Duke of Burgundy had the 
command this year, having the Duke 
of Berry with him, and the famous 
Marcschal Vendosme and the Duke 
of Matignon to aid him in the cam- 
paign. Holtz, who knew everything 
that was passing in Flanders and 
France (and the Indies for what I 
know), insisted that there would be 
no more fighting in 1708 than there 
had been in the previous year, and 
that our commander had reasons for 
keeping him quiet. Indeed, Esmond’s 
general, who w'as known as a grum- 
bler, and to have a hearty mistrust of 
the great Duke, and hundreds more 
otficers besides, did not scruple to say 
that these private reasons came to the 
Duke in the shape of crown-pieces 
from the French king, by whom the 
Generalissimo was bribed to avoid a 
battle. There were plenty of men in 
our lines, quidnuncs, to whom Mr. 
Webb listened only too willingly, 
wlio could specify the exact sums the 
Duke got, how much fell to Cadogan’s 
share, and Avhat was the precise fee 
given to Doctor Hare. 


And the successes with which the 
French began the campaign of 1 708 
served to give strength to these re- 
ports of treason, which were in every- 
body’s mouth. Our gencial allowed 
the enemy to get between us and 
Ghent, and declined to attack him, 
though for cight-and-forty hours the 
armies were in presence of each other. 
Ghent was taken, and on the same 
day Monsieur de la Mothe summon- 
ed Bruges ; and these two great cities 
fell into the hands of the French 
without firing a shot. A few days 
afterwards La Mothe seized upon the 
fort of Plashendall ; and it began to 
be supposed that all Spanish Flanders, 
as well as Brabant, Avould fall into 
the hands of the French troops; 
when the Prince Eugene arrived 
from the Moze]le,.and then there "was 
no more shilly-shallying. 

The Prince of Savoy always signa- 
lized his arrival at the army by a 
great feast (my Lord Duke’s enter- 
tainments were both seldom and shab- 
by) : and I remember our general 
returning from this dinner with the 
two commanders in-chief ; his honest 
head a little excited by wine, which 
W’as dealt out much more liberally by 
the Austrian than by the English 
commander : — “ Now,” says my gen- 
eral, slapping the table, with an oath, 
“ he must fight ; and when he is 

forced to it, d it, no man in 

Europe can stand up against Jack 
Churchill.” Within a week the bat- 
tle of Oudenarde Avas fought, Avhen, 
hate each other as they might, Es- 
mond’s general and the Commander- 
in-Chief Averc forced to admire each 
other, so splendid Avas the gallantry 
of each upon this day. 

The brigade commanded by Major- 
General Webb gave and received 
about as hard knocks as any that 
AA^ere delivered in that actir)n, in Avhich 
Mr. Esmond had the fortune to servo 
at the head of his own company in 
his regiment, under the command of 
their own Colonel as Major-General ; 
and it Avas his good luck to bring the 
regiment out of action as commander 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


175 


of it, the four senior officers above 
liim being killed in the prodigious 
slaughter Avhich happened on that 
day. I liked to think that Jack Hay- 
thorn, Avlio sneered at me for being a 
bast ird and a parasite of Webb’s, as 
he chose to call me, and Avith Avhom I 
had had Avords, shook hands Avith me 
the day before the battle begun. 
Three days before, poor Brace, our 
Lieutenant-Colonel, had heard of his 
elder brother’s death, and Avas heir to 
a baronetcy in Norfolk, and four 
thousand a year. Fate, that had left 
him harmless through a dozen cam- 
paigns, seized on him just as the AA'orld 
Avas Avorth living for, and he Avent 
into action knowing, as he said, that 
the luck Avas going to turn iigainst 
him. The Major had just joined us, 
— a creature of Lord Marlborough, 
put in much to tlie dislike of the 
other officers, and to be a spy upon 
us, as it Avas said. I knoAv not 
Avhether the truth Avas so, nor Avho 
took the tattle of our mess to head- 
quarters, but Webb’s regiment, as its 
Colonel, Avas knoAvn to be in the 
Commander-in-Chief s black books : 
“ And if he did not dare to break it 
up at home,” our gallant old chief 
used to say, “ he Avas determined to 
destroy it before the enemy,” so that 
poor Major Proudfoot Avas put into a 
post of danger. 

Esmond’s dear young Viscount, 
serving as aide-de-camp to my Lord 
Duke, received a Avound, and Avon an 
honorable name for himself in the 
Gazette ; and Captain Esmond’s name 
Avas sent in for promotion by his 
General, too, whose favorite he Avas. 
It made his heart beat to think that 
certain eyes at home, the brightest in 
the Avorld, might read the page on 
Avhich his humble services Avere re- 
corded ; but his mind Avas made up 
steadily to keep out of their dangerous 
influence, and to let time and absence 
conquer that passion he had still lurk- 
ing about him. AAvay from Beatrix, 
it did not trouble him, but he kncAV as 
certain that if he returned home, his 
fever would break out again, and 


aA'oided Walcote as a Lincolnshire 
man aAmids returning to his fens, 
Avheie he is sure that the ague is lying 
in Avait for him. 

We of the English party in the 
army, Avho Avere inclined to sneer at 
CA'erything that came out of Hanover, 
and to treat as little better than boors 
and savages the Elector’s court and 
family, Avere yet forced to confess 
that, on the day of Oudenarde, the 
young Electoral Prince, then making 
his first campaign, conducted himself 
with the spirit and courage of an ap- 
proved soldier. On this occasion his 
Electoral Highness had better luck 
than the King of England, Avho Avas 
with his cousins in the enemy’s camp, 
and had to run Avith them at the ig- 
nominious end of the day. With 
the most consummate generals in the 
Avorld before them, and an admirable 
commander on their oavu side, they 
chose to neglect the councils, and to 
rush into a combat Avith the former, 
Avhich Avould have ended in the utter 
annihilation of their army but for 
the great skill and bravery of the 
Duke of Vendosme, Avho remedied, as 
fiu' as courage and genius might, the 
disasters occasioned by the squabbles 
and follies of his kinsmen, the legiti- 
mate princes of the blood royal. 

“ If the Duke of Berwick had but 
been in the army, the fate of the day 
Avould haA^e been very different,” Avas 
all that poor Mr. von Holtz could 
say ; “ and you Avould have seen that 
the hero of Almanza Avas fit to meas- 
ure sAA^ords Avith the conqueror of 
Blenheim.” 

The business relative to the ex- 
change of prisoners Avas ahvays going 
on, and Avas at least that ostensible 
one Avhich kept Mr. Holtz perpetually 
on the move between the forees of the 
French and the Allies. I ean answer 
for it, that he Avas onee A'ery near 
hanged as a spy by Major-General 
Wayne, Avhen he Avas released and 
sent on to head-quarters by a special 
order of the Commander-in-Chief. 
He came and Avent, ahvays favored, 
Avherever he Avas, by some high though , 


176 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


occult protection. He carried mes- 
sages between tlie Duke of Berwick 
and his uncle, our Duke. He seemed 
to know as well what was taking 
place in the Prince’s quarter as our 
own ; he brought the compliments of 
the King of England to some of our 
officers, the gentlemen of Webb’s 
among the rest, for their behavior, on 
that great day ; and after Wynendael, 
when our General was chafing at the 
neglect of our Commander-in-Chief, 
lic said he knew how that action was 
regarded by the chiefs of the French 
army, and that the stand made before 
Wynendael wood was the passage by 
which the Allies entered Lille. 

“ Ah ! ” says Holtz (and some 
folks were very willing to listen to 
him), “ if the King came by his own, 
how changed the conduct of affairs 
would be ! His Majesty’s very exile 
has this advantage, that he is enabled 
to read England impartially, and to 
judge honestly of all the eminent 
men. His sister is always in the 
hand of one greedy ffivorite or 
another, through whose eyes she sees, 
and to whose flattery or dependants 
she gives away everything. Do you 
suppose that his Majesty, knowing 
England so well as he does, would 
neglect such a man as General Webb 
He ought to l)e in the House of Peers 
as Lord Lydiard. The enemy and all 
Europe know his merit ; it is that 
very reputation which certain great 
people, who hate all equality and in- 
dependence, can never pardon.” It 
was intended that these conversations 
should be carried to Mr. Webb. 
They were welcome to him, for great 
as his services were, no man could 
value them more than John Rich- 
mond Webb did himself, and the 
differences between him and Marl- 
borough being notorious, his Grace’s 
enemies in the army and at home be- 
gan to court Webb, and set him up 
against the all-grasping, domineer- 
ing chief. And soon after the victory 
of Oudenarde, a glorious opportunity 
fell into General Webb’s way, which 
that gallant warrior did not * neglect. 


and which gave him the means of | 
immensely increasing his reputation 
at home. 

After Oudenarde, and against the „ 
counsels of Marlborough, it was said, 
the Prince of Savoy sat down before 
Lille, the capital of French Flanders, j 
and commenced that siege, the most 
celebrated of our time, and almost as 
famous as the siege of Troy itself, 
for the feats of valor performed in 
the assault and the defence. The 
enmity of that Prince of Savoy 
against the French king was a furious * 
personal hate, quite unlike the calm 
hostility of our great English general, ^ 
who Avas no more moved by tlie game 
of war than that of billiards, and 
pushed forward his squadrons, and 
droA-e his red battalions hither and 
thither as calmly as he Avould com- 
bine a stroke or make a cannon Avith 
the balls. The game OA^er (and he 
played it so as to be pretty sure to 
Avin it), not the least animosity against 
the other party remained in the 
breast of this consummate tactician. 
Whereas betAveen the Prince of SaA'oy 
and the French it was gueire a mort. 
Beaten off in one quarter, as he had 
been at Toulon in the last year, ho 
Avas back again on another frontier 
of France, assailing it Avith Ids inde- 
fatigable fury. When the Prince 
came to the army, the smouldering 
fires of Avar Avere lighted up and burst 
out into a flame. Our phlegmatic 
Dutch allies AA cre made to adA unce at 
a quick march, — our calm Duke 
forced into action. The Prince Avas 
an army in himself against the 
French ; the energy of his hatred, 
prodigious, indefatigable, — infectious 
over hundreds of thousands of men. 

The Emperor’s general Avas repaying, 
and Avith a vengeance, the slight the 
French king had put upon the fiery 
little Abbe of Savoy. Brilliant and 
famous as a leader himself, and be- 
yond all measure daring and intrejdd, 
and enabled to cope Avith almost the 
best of those ffimous men of Avar who 
commanded the armies of the French 
king, Eugene had a weapon, the 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


177 


equal of which could not be found in 
France, since the cannon-shot of 
Sasbach laid low the noble Turenne, 
and could hurl Marlborough at the 
heads of the French host, and crush 
them as with a rock, under Avhich all 
the gathered strength of their strong- 
est captains must go down. 

The English Duke took little part 
in that vast siege of Lille, Avhich the 
Imperial Generalissimo pursued with 
all his force and vigor, further than to 
cover the besieging lines from the 
Duke of Burgundy’s army, between 
which and the Imperialists our Duke 
lay. Once, when Prince Eugene was 
wounded, our Duke took his High- 
ness’s place in the trenches ; but the 
siege was Avith the Imperialists, not 
with us. A division under Webb and 
Ilantzau Avas detached into Artois 
and Picardy upon the most painful 
and odious service that Mr. Esmond 
eA-^er saw in the course of his military 
life. The Avretched towns of the de- 
fenceless provinces, Avhose young men 
had been drafted away into the French 
armies, which year after year the in- 
satiable Avar devoured, Avere left at 
our mercy; and our orders Avere to 
shoAv them none. We found places 
garrisoned by invalids, and children 
and Avomen ; poor as they were, and 
as the costs of this miserable war had 
made them, our commission Avas to 
rob these almost starving Avretches, — 
to tear the food out of their granaries, 
and strip them of their rags. ’T was 
an expedition of rapine and murder 
we Avere sent on : our soldiers did 
deeds such as an honest man must 
blush to remember. We bi'ought back 
money and provisions in quantity to 
the Duke’s camp ; there had been no 
one to resist us, and yet who dares to 
tell Avith Avhat murder and Auolence, 
Avith Avhat brutal cruelty, outratre, 
insult, that ignoble booty had been 
ravished from the innocent and miser- 
able victims of the Avar ? 

MeanAvhile, gallantly as the opera- 
tions before Lille had been conducted, 
the Allies had made but little progress, 
and ’t Avas said Avhen Ave returned to 
8 


the Duke of Marlborough’s camp, 
that the siege Avould never be brought 
to a satisfactory end, and that the 
Prince of Savoy Avould be forced to 
raise it. My Lord Marlborough gave 
this as his opinion openly ; those Avho 
mistrusted him, and Mr. Esmond 
owns himself to be of the number, 
hinted that the Duke had his reasons 
why Lille should not be taken, and 
that he Avas paid to that end by the 
French king. If this Avas so, and I 
believe it. General Webb had now a 
remarkable opportunity of gratifying 
his hatred of the Commander-in- 
Chief, of balking that shameful 
avarice, Avhich Avas one of the basest 
and most notorious qualities of the 
famous Duke, and of showing his 
own consummate skill as a com- 
mander. And Avhen I consider all 
the circumstances preceding the event 
Avhich Avill now be related, that my 
Lord Duke Avas actually offered cer- 
tain millions of crowns provided that 
the siege of Lille should be raised : 
that the Imperial army before it Avas 
Avithout provisions and ammunition, 
and must have decamped but for the 
supplies that they received ; that the 
march of the convoy destined to re- 
lieve the siege Avas accurately knoAvn 
to the French ; and that the force 
covering it Avas shameftilly inadequate 
to that end, and by six times inferior 
to Count de la Mothe’s army, Avliich 
Avas sent to intercept the convoy ; 
Avhen ’t is certain that the Duke of 
BerAvick, De la Mothe’s chief, Avas iu 
constant correspondence Avith his un- 
cle, the English Generalissimo : I be- 
lieve on my conscience that ’t was 
my Lord Marlborough’s intention to 
prevent those supplies, of Avhich tlie 
Prince of Savoy stood in absolute 
need, from ever reaching his Higlv 
ness ; that he meant to sacrifice the 
little army which covered this couA'Oy, 
and to betray it as he had betrayed 
Tollemache at Brest; as he had be- 
trayed eA'ery friend he had, to furthet 
his OAvn schemes of avarice or am- 
bition. But for the miraculous victory! 
which Esmond’s general AAmn over an 
L 


178 


THE HISTOEY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


army six or seven times greater than 
his own, the siege of Lille must have 
been raised ; and it must he remem- 
bered that our gallant little force w'as 
under the command of a general 
whom Marlborough hated, that he 
was furious with the conqueror, and 
tried by the most open and shameless 
injustice afterwards to rob him of the 
credit of his victory. 

« 

CHAPTER XV. 

QENERALr WEBB WINS THE BATTLE 

OF WYNENDAEL. 

By the besiegers and besieged of 
Lille, some of the most brilliant feats of 
valor were performed that ever illus- 
trated any war. On the I'rench side 
(whose gallantry was prodigious, the 
skill and bravery of Marshal Boufflers 
actually eclipsing those of his con- 
queror, the Prince of Savoy) may be 
mentioned that daring action of Mes- 
sieurs de Luxembourg and Tournc- 
fort, who, with a body of horse and 
dragoons, carried powder in the town, 
of which the besieged w^ere in extreme 
want, each soldier bringing a bag 
witli forty pounds of pow’der behind 
him ; with which perilous provision 
they engaged our owui horse, faced tlie 
fire of the foot brought out to meet 
them : and though halfof the men were 
blown up in the dreadful errand they 
rode on, a jiart of them got into the 
town with the succors of which the gar- 
rison was so much in wTint. A French 
officer, Monsieur du Bois, performed 
an act equally daring, and perfectly 
successful. The Duke’s great army 
lying at Helchin, and covering the 
siege, and it being necessary for M. 
de Vendosme to get news of the 
condition of the place. Captain Dubois 
performed his famous exploit : not 
only passing through the lines of the 
siege, but sw'imming afterwards no 
less than seven moats and ditches : 
and coming back the same way, 
swimming with his letters in his 
mouth. 


By these letters Monsieur dc Bouf- 
flers said that he could undertake to 
hold the ])lace till October ; and that 
if one of the convoys of the Allies 
could be intercepted, they must raise 
the siege altogether. 

Such a convoy as hath been said 
W'as now prepared at Ostend, and 
about to march for the siege ; and 
on the 27th September we (and the 
French too) had news that it was on 
its W'ay. It was composed of 700 
wagons, containing ammunition of 
all sorts, and wms escorted out of 
Ostend by 2,000 infantry and 300 
horse. At the same time M. de la 
Mothe quitted Bruges, having with 
him five-and-thirty battalions, and 
upwards of sixty squadrons and forty 
guns, in pursuit of the convoy. 

Major-General Webb had mean- 
while made up a force of tw^enty bat- 
talions and three squadrons of dra- 
goons at Turout, whence he moved to 
cover the convoy and pursue La 
Mothe : with wdiose advanced guard 
ours came up upon the great plain 
of Turout, and before the little wood 
and castle of Wyncndael; behind 
which the convoy w^as marching. 

As soon as they came in sight of 
the enemy, our advanced troops were 
halted, wdth the wood behind them, 
and the rest of our force brought up 
as quickly as possible, our little body 
of horse being brought forward to the 
opening of the pdain, as our General 
said, to amuse the enemy. When 
M. la Mothe came up, he found us 
posted in two lines in front of the 
w^ood ; and formed his own army in 
battle facing ours, in eight lines, four 
of infantry in front, and dragoons and 
cavalry behind. 

The French began the action, as 
usual, wdth a cannonade w hich lasted 
three hours, wdien they made their at- 
tack, advancing in eight lines, lour of 
foot and four of horse, upon the allied 
troops in the w'ood w here w^c were post- 
ed. Their infantry behaved ill ; they 
were ordered to charge with the bay- 
onet, but, instead, began to fire, and nl- 
most at the very first discharge from 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


179 


our men, broke and fled. The cavalry 
behaved better; with these alone, who 
were three or four times as numerous 
as our whole force, Monsieur de la 
Mothe might have won victory : but 
only two of our battalions were 
shaken in the least ; and these speed- 
ily rallied : nor could the repeated 
attacks of the French horse cause our 
troops to budge an inch from the posi- 
tion in the wood in Avhich our General 
had placed them. 

After attacking for two hours, the 
French retired at nightMl entirely 
foiled. With all the loss we had in- 
flicted upon him, the enemy was still 
three times stronger than we : and it 
could not be supposed that our Gen- 
eral could pursue M. de la Mothe, or 
do much more than hold our ground 
about the wood, from Avhich the 
Frenchman had in vain attempted to 
dislodge us. La Mothe retired behind 
his forty guns, his cavalry pi'otecting 
them better than it had been enabled 
to annoy us ; and meanwhile the con- 
voy, Avhich Avas of more importance 
than all our little force, and the safe 
passage of Avhich Ave AA'ould have 
dropped to the last man to accomplish, 
marched aAA'ay in perfect safety during 
the action, and joyfully reached the 
besieging camp before Lille. 

Major-General Cadogan, my Lord 
Duke’s Quartermaster-General (and 
betAveen Avhom and Mr. Webb there 
Avas no loA’e lost), accompanied the 
conA'oy, and joined Mr. Webb Avith a 
couple of hundred horse just as the 
battle Avas OA^er, and the enemy in full 
retreat. He offered, readily enough, 
to charge Avith his horse upon the 
French as they fell back ; but his 
force Avas too AA^eak to inflict any 
damage upon them ; and Mr. Webb, 
commanding as Cadogan ’s senior, 
thought enough Avas done in holding 
our ground before an enemy that 
might still have overAvhelmed us had 
Ave engaged him in the open territory, 
and in securing the safe passage of 
the convoy. Accordingly, the horse 
brought up by Cadogan did not draAV 
a sword ; and only prevented, by the j 


good countenance they showed, any 
disposition the French might have 
had to reneAv the attack on us. And 
no attack coming, at nightfoll Gene- 
ral Cadogan drew off Avith his squad- 
ron, being bound for head-quarters, the 
tAvo Generals at parting grimly salut- 
ing each other. 

“ He Avill be at Honcq time enough 
to lick my Lord Duke’s trenchers at 
supper,” says Mr. Webb. 

Our own men lay out in the Avoods 
of Wynendael that night, and our 
General had his supper in the little 
castle there. 

“ If I Avas Cadogan, I Avould have 
a peerage for this day’s Avork,” Gen- 
eral Webb said; “and, Harry, thou 
shouldst have a regiment. Thou hast 
been reported in the last tA\'o actions : 
thou wert near killed in the first. I 
shall mention thee in my despatch to 
his Grace the Commander-in-Chief, 
and recommend thee to poor Dick 
HarAvood’s vacant majority. Have 
you ever a hundred guineas to give 
Cardonnel ? Slip them into his hand 
to-morrow, Avhen you go to head- 
quarters Avith my report.” 

In this report the Major - General 
Avas good enough to mention Captain 
Esmond’s name Avith particular favor ; 
and that gentleman carried the de- 
spatch to head-quarters the next day, 
and Avas not a little pleased to bring 
back a letter by his Grace’s secretary, 
addressed to Lieutenant-General 
Webb. The Dutch officer despatched 
by Count Nassau Woudenbourg, 
Vaslt - Mareschal Auverquerq tie’s son, 
brought back also a complimentary 
letter to his commander, Avho had sec- 
onded Mr. Webb in the action Avith 
great valor and skill. 

Esmond, Avith a Ioav bow and a 
smiling face, presented his despatch, 
and saluted Mr. Webb as Lieutenant- 
General, as he gaA'e it in. The gen- 
tlemen round about him — he Avas 
riding Avith his suite on the road to 
Menin as Esmond came up Avith him 
— gaA^c a cheer, and he thanked them, 
and opened the despatch with rather a 
flushed eager face. 


180 


THE HISTOHY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


He slapped it down on his hoot in 
a rage after lie had read it. “'Tis 
not even writ witli Ids own hand. 
Kiad it out, Esmond.” And Es- 
mond read it out: — 

“Sir, — Mr. Cadogan is just now 
come in, and has acquainted me with 
the success of the action you had yes- 
terday in the afternoon against the 
body of troops commanded hy M. de 
la Mothe, at Wyncndael, which must 
he attributed chiefly to your good con- 
duct and resolution. Y^ou may be 
sure I shall do you justice at home, 
and be glad on all occasions to own 
the service you have done in securing 
this convoy. — Y'ours, &c., M.” 

“Two lines by that d d Car- 

donnel, and no more, for the taking 
^f Lille, — for heating flve times our 
number, — for an action as brilliant as 
the best he ever fought,” says poor 
Mr. Webb. “ Lieutenant-General ! 
That ^s not his doing. I Avas the old- 
est major-general. By , I believe 

he had been better pleased if 1 had 
been beat.” 

The letter to the Dutch officer Avas 
in French, and longer and more com- 
plimentary than that to Mr. Webb. 

“And this is the man,” he broke 
out, “that’s gorged AAith gold, — 
that ’s coA'ered AAutli titles and honors 
that AA-e Avon for him, — and that 
grudges catu a line of praise to a 
comrade in arms! Hasn’t he 
enough ? Don’t aa'c fight that he 
may roll in riches ? Well, Avell, AA’ait 
for the Gazette, gentlemen. The 
Queen and the country aauU do us 
justice if his Grace denies it us.” 
There Avere tears of rage in the brave 
Avarrior’s eyes as be spoke; and he 
da'^hed them off his face on to his 
glove. He shook his fist in the air. 
O, by the Lord 1 ” says he, “ I knoAv 
Avhat I had rather have than a peer- 
age 1 ” 

“ And AA'hat is that, sir 1 ” some of 
them asked. 

“ I had rather haA-e a quarter of an 
hour with John Churchill, on a fair 


green field, and only a pair of rapiers 
betAveen my shirt and his — ” 

“ Sir ! ” interposes one. 

“ Tell him so ! I knoAV that ’s 
what you mean. I knoAv every word 
goes to him that ’s dropped from every 
general officer’s mouth. 1 don’t say 
he ’s not brave. Curse him ! he ’s 
brave enough ; but AA^e ’ll Avait for the 
Gazette, gentlemen. God saAx her 
Majesty! she’ll do us justice.” 

The Gazette did not come to us till 
a month aftcrAvards ; Avhen my Gen- 
eral and his officers had the honor to 
dine Avith Prince Eugene in Lille; 
his Highness being good enough to 
say that Ave had brought the proA is- 
ions, and ought to share in the ban- 
quet. ’T Avas a great banquet. His 
Grace of Marlborough Avas on his 
Highness’s right, and on his left the 
Mareschal de Bouffler.s, avIio had so 
braA'ely defended the place. The 
eliief officers of either army AA-cre 
present; and you may be sure Es- 
mond’s General Avas splendid this 
day : his tall, noble person, and 
manly beauty of fiiee, made him re- 
markable anyAvhere ; he Avore, for the 
first time, the star of the Order of 
Generosity, that his Prussian Majesty 
had sent to him for his victory. His 
Highness the Prince of Savoy called 
a toast to tlie conqueror of Wynen- 
dael. My Lord Duke drank it Avith 
rather a sickly smile. The aides-de- 
camp Avere present : and Harry Es- 
mond and his dear young lord Avere 
together, as they ahvays strove to be 
Avhen duty Avould permit : they Avere 
OA'er against the table Avhcrc the gen- 
erals Avere, and could see all that 
passed pretty aa’cII. Frank laughed 
at my I.ord Duke’s glum face: the 
affair of Wyncndael, and the Captain- 
General’s conduct to Webb, bad been 
the talk of the Avhole army. AVhen 
his Highness spoke, and guA-e, — “Le 
A'ainqueur de Wynendacl ; son armee 
et sa victoire,” adding, “()ui nous 
font diner a Lille aujourd’buy,” — 
there Avas a great cheer ihiough the 
hall ; for Mr. Webb’s braverv. gene- 
rosity. and very Aveaknesses of chan 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


181 


actcr caused him to be beloved in the 
army. 

“ Like Hector, handsome, and like 
Paris, brave ! ” whispers Frank Cas- 
tlewood. “A Venus, an elderlv Ve- 
nus, could n’t refuse him a pippin. 
Stand up, Harry. See, we arc drink- 
ins^ the army of \Yyncndacl, lla- 
millies is nothing to it. Huzzay ! 
huzzay ! ” 

At this very time, and just after 
our General had made his acknowl- 
edgment, some one brought in an 
English Gazette, — and was pa.ssing 
it from hand to hand down the tiiblc. 
Officers were eager enough to read it ; 
mothers and sisters at home must 
have sickened over it. There scarce 
came out a Gazette for six years that 
did not tell of some heroic death or 
some brilliant achievement. 

“Here it is — Action of Wynen- 
dael — here you are, General,” says 
Frank, seizing hold of the little dingy 
paper that soldiers love to read so; 
and, scrambling over from our bench, 
he went to where the General sat, 
who knew him, and had seen many a 
time at his table his laughing, hand- 
some face, which everybody loved 
who saw. The generals in their 
great perukes made way for him. 
He handed the paper over General 
Hohna’s buft-coat to our General on 
the opposite side. 

He came hobbling back, and blush- 
ing at his feat : “ 1 thought he ’d like 
(t, Harry,” the young fellow whis- 
pered. “ Did n’t I like to read my 
name after Ilamillics, in the London 
Gazette ? — Viscount Castlcwood serv- 
ing a volunteer — I say, what ’s 
yonder ? ” 

Mr. Webb, reading the Gazette, 
looked very strange, — slapped it dowm 
on the table, — then sprang up in his 
place and began to — “ Will your 
iliglmcss please to — ” 

His Grace the Duke of Marl- 
borough here jumped up too, — 
“ There ’s some mistake, my dear 
General Webb.” 

“ Y'our Grace had better rectify it,” 
says Mr. Webb, holding out the let- 


ter ; but he was five off his Grace the 
Prince Duke, who, besides, was higher 
than the General (being seated with 
the Prince of Savoy, the Electoral 
Prince of Hanover, and the envoys 
of Prussia and Denmark, under a 
baldaquin), and Webb could not 
reach him, tall as he was. 

“ Stay,” says he, with a smile, as 
if catching at some idea, and then, 
with a perfect courtesy, drawing his 
sword, he ran the Gazette through 
with the point, and said, “Permit me 
to hand it to your Graee.” 

The Duke looked very black. 
“ Take it,” says he, to his Master of 
the Horse, who was waiting behind 
him. 

The Lieutenant-General made a 
very low bow, and retired and finished 
his glass. The Gazette in Avhieh Mr. 
Cardonnel, the Duke’s Secretary, 
gave an account of the victory of 
Wynendael, mentioned Mr. Webb’s 
name, but gave the sole praise and 
conduct of the action to the Duke’s 
favorite, Mr, Cadogan. 

There was no little talk and ex- 
citement occasioned by this strange 
behavior of General Webb, who had 
almost drawn a sword upon the Com- 
mander-in-Chief; but the General, 
after the first outbreak of his anger, 
mastered it outwardly altogether ; 
and, by his subsequent behavior, had 
the satisfiiction of even more anger- 
ing the Commander-in- Chief, than he 
could have done by any public exhi- 
bition of resentment. 

On returning to his quartci's, and 
consulting with his chief adviser, Mr. 
Esmond, who was now entirely in 
the General’s confidence, and treated 
by him as a friend, and almost a son, 
Mr, Webb writ a letter to his Grace 
the Commander-in-Chief, in Avhicli he 
said : — 

“ Your Grace must be aAvare that 
the sudden perusal of the London 
Gazette, in Avhich your Grace’s secre- 
te ry, Mr. Cardonnel, hath mentioned 
Major-General Cadoiran’s name as the 
officer commanding in the late action 


182 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMONH. 


of Wynendael, must have caused a 
foelin<^ of anythin'^ but pleasure to 
the General who fou'^ht that action. 

“ Your Grace must be aware that 
Mr. Cadogan was not even present at 
the battle, though lie arrived with 
squadrons of horse at its close, and 
put himself under the command of 
his superior officer. And as the re- 
sult of the battle of Wynendciel, in 
which Lieutenant-General Webb had 
the good fortune to command, was 
the capture of Lille, the relief of 
Brussels, then invested by the enemy 
under the Elector of Bavaria, the 
restoration of the great cities of 
Ghent and Bruges, of which the en- 
emy (by treason Avithin the Avails) 
luui got possession in tlic previous 
year, Mr. Webb cannot consent to 
forego the honors of such a success 
and service, for the benefit of Mr. 
Cadogan, or any other person. 

“ As soon as the military operations 
of the year are OA-cr, Lieutenant-Gen- 
eral Webb Avill request permission to 
leaA^c the army, and return to his 
place in Parliament, Avherc he gives 
notice to his Grace the Commander- 
in-Chief, that he shall lay his case be- 
fore the House of Commons, the 
country, and her Majesty the Queen. 

“ By his eagerness to rectify that 
false statement of the Gazette, Avhich 
had been Avritten by his Grace’s sec- 
retary, Mr. Cardonnel, Mr. Webb, 
not being able to reach his Grace the 
Commander-in-Chief on account of 
the gentlemen seated betAA'ecn them, 
placed the paper containing the false 
statement on his SAvord, so that it 
might more readily arriA'e in the 
hands of his Grace the Duke of 
Marlborough, avIio surely Avould Avish 
to do justice to every officer of his 
army. 

“ Mr. Webb knoAvs his duty too 
Avell to think of insubordination to 
his superior officer, or of using his 
SAvord in a campaign against any but 
the enemies of her Majesty. He so- 
licits permission to return to Fmg- 
land immediately the military duties 
Avill permit, and take Avith "him to 


England Captain Esmond of his regi- 
ment, Avho acted as his aide-de-camp, 
and Avas present during the entire ac- 
tion, and noted by his Avatch the time 
Avhen Mr. Cadogan arrived at its 
close.” 

The Commander-in-Chief could 
not but grant this permission, nor 
could he take notice of Webb’s letter, 
though it Avas couched in terms the 
most insulting. Half the army be- 
lieved tliat the cities of Ghent and 
Bruges Avere given up by a treason, 
Avhich some in our army very aacII 
understood ; that the Commander-in- 
Chief Avould not have relicA'ed Lille 
if he could have helped himself; that 
he Avould not have fought that year 
had not the Prince of Savoy forced 
him. When the battle once began, 
then, for his OAvn renoAvn, mA' Lord 
Marlborough Avould fight as no man 
in the Avorld ever fought better ; and 
no bribe on earth could keep liim 
from beating the enemy.* 

But the matter Avas taken up by 
the subordinates ; and half the army 

* Our Grandfather’s hatred of the Duke of 
Marlborough appears all through his account 
of these campaigns. He always persisted 
that the Duke was the greatest traitor and 
soldier history ever told of 5 and declared 
that he took bribes on all hands during the 
war. My Lord Marquis (for so we may call 
him here, though he never went by any other 
name than Colonel Esmond) was in the habit 
of telling many stories which he did not set 
down in his memoirs, and which he had from 
his friend the Jesuit, who was not always cor- 
rectly informed, and who persisted that Marl- 
borough was looking for a bribe of two mil- 
lions of cro.wns before the campaign of Ram- 
illies. 

And our Grandmother used to tell us chil- 
dren, that on his first presentation to my 
Lord Duke, the Duke turned his back upon 
my Grandfather ; and said to the Duchess, 
who told my Lady Dowager at Chelsey, who 
afterwards told Colonel Esmond, — “ Tom 
Esmond’s bastard has been to my lev6e ; he 
has the hang-dog look of his rogue of a fa- 
ther,” — an expression which my Grand- 
father never forgave. He was as constant in 
his dislikes as in his attachments ; and ex- 
ceedingly partial to IVebb, whose side he 
took against the more celebrated general. 
We have General Webb’s portrait now at 
Castlewood, \'a. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


183 


might have been by the ears, if the 
quarrel had not been stopped. Gen- 1 
eral Cadogan sent an intimation to 
General Webb to say that be was : 
ready if Webb liked, and would meet ! 
him. This was a kind of invitation ' 
our stout old general was always too 
ready to accept, and ’t was with great 
difficulty we got the General to reply 
that he had no quarrel with Mr. 
Cadogan, Avho had behaved with per- 
fect gallantry, but only with those at 
head-quarters, who had belied him. 
jMr. Cardonnel offered General Webb 
reparation; Mr. Webb said he had a 
cane at the service of Mr. Cardonnel, 
and the only satisfaction he wanted 
from him was one he was not likely 
to get, namely, the truth. The 
officers in our staff of Webb’s, and 
those in the immediate suite of the 
General, were ready to come to blows ; 
and hence arose die only affair in 
Avhich Mr. Esmond ever engaged as 
principal, and that was from a revenge- 
ful wish to wipe off an old injury. 

My Lord Mohun, who had a troop ; 
in Lord Macclesfield’s regiment of I 
the Horse Guards, rode this cam- ! 
aign with the Duke. He had sunk 
y this time to the very worst reputa- I 
tion ; he had had another fatal duel 
in Spain ; he had married, and for- 
saken his wife ^ he was a gambler, 
a profligate and debauchee. He 
joined just before Oudenarde; and, 
as Esmond feared, as soon as Frank 
Castlewood heard of his arrival, 
Frank was for seeking him out, and 
killing him. The wound my Lord 
got at Oudenarde prevented their 
meeting, but that was nearly healed, 
and Mr. Esmond trembled daily lest 
any chance should bring his boy 
and this unknown assassin together. 
They met at the mess-table of Ilandy- 
side’s regiment at Lille, the officer 
commanding not knowing of the 
feud between the two noblemen. 

Esmond had not seen the hateful 
handsome face of Mohun for nine 
years, since they had met on that 
fatal night in Leicester Field, It 
was degraded with crime and passion 


now ; it wore the anxious look of a 
man who has three deaths, and who 
knows how many hidden sliames, and 
lusts, and crimes on his conscience. 
He bowed with a sickly low bow, 
and slunk away when our host pre- 
sented us round to one another. 
Frank Castlewood had not known 
him till then, so changed was he. 
He knew the boy well enough. 

’T was curious to look at the two, 
— especially the young man, whose 
face flushed up when he heard the 
hated name of the other; and who 
said in his bad French and his brave 
boyish voice, — “ He had long been 
anxious to meet my Lord Mohun.” 
The other only bowed, and moved 
away from him. I do him justice, he 
wished to have no quarrel with the lad. 

Esmond put himself between them 

at table. “D it,” says Frank, 

“ why do you put yourself in the 
place of a man who is above you in 
degree 1 My Lord Mohun should 
Avalk after me. I want to sit by my 
Lord Mohun.” 

Esmond whispered to Lord Mohun, 
that Frank was hurt in the leg at 
Oudenarde ; and besought the other 
to be quiet. Quiet enough he Avas 
for some time ; disregarding the 
many taunts which young Castle- 
Avood flung at him, until after scA^eral 
healths, Avhen my Lord Mohun got 
to be rather in liquor. 

“ Will you go aAvay, my Lord ? ” 
Mr. Esmond said to him, imploring 
him to quit the table. 

“ No, by G — ,” says my Lord Mo- 
hun. “ I T1 not go aAvay for any 
man ” ; ho Avas quite flushed Avitii 
Avine by this time. 

The talk got round to the affairs 
of yesterday. Webb had offered to 
challenge the Commandcr-in-Chief ; 
AVebb had been ill used : Webb Avas 
the bravest, handsomest, vainest man 
in the army. Lord Mohun did not 
know that Esmond Avas Webb’s aide- 
de-camp. He began to tell some 
stories against the General ; Avhich, 
from t’other side of Esmond, young 
Castlewood contradicted. 


184 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


I can’t bear any more of this,” 
says my Lord Molmn. 

“ Nor can I, my Lord,” says Mr. 
Esmond, starting up. “ The story 
my Lord Mohun has told respecting 
General Webb is false, gentlemen, 

— false, I repeat,” and making a low 
bow to Lord Molmn, and witliout a 
single word more, Esmond got up 
and left the dining-room. These 
affairs were common enough among 
the military of those days. There 
was a garden behind the house, and 
all the party turned instantly into it ; 
and the two gentlemen’s coats were 
off’ and their points engaged within 
two minutes after Esmond’s words 
had been spoken. If Captain Esmond 
had jnit Mohun out of the world, as 
he might, a villain would have been 
punished and spared further villanies, 

— but who is one man to punish an- 
other'? I declare upon my honor 
that my only thought was to prevent 
Lord Mohun from mischief Avitli 
Frank, and the end of this meeting 
was, that after half a dozen passes 
my Lord went home tvith a hurt 
which prevented him from lifting his 
right arm for three months. 

“ O Harry ! why did n’t you kill 
the villain ? ” young Castlewood 
asked. “ I can’t walk without a 
crutch : but I could have met him on 
liorseback -with sword and pistol.” 
But Harry Esmond said, “ ’T was 
best to have no man’s life on one’s 
conscience, not even that villain’s.” 
And tliis affair, which did not oc- 
cu])y three minutes, being over, the 
gentlemen . went back to their wdne, 
and my Lord Mohun to his quarters, 
v.’here he was laid up with a fever 
which had spared mischief had it 
proved fatal. And very soon after 
this affair Harry Esmond and his 
General left the camp for London ; 
whitlicr a certain reputation had pre- 
ceded the Captain, for my Lady 
Castlewood of Chclscy received him 
as if he had been a conquering hero. 
She gave a great dinner to Mr. Webb, 
where the General’s chair was crowned 
with laurels ; and her Ladyship called 


Esmond’s health in a toast, to which 
my kind General was graciously 
pleased to bear the strongest testi- 
mony ; and took down a mob of at least 
forty coaches to cheer our General as 
he came out of the House of Commons, 
the day when he received the thanks 
of Parliament for his action. The 
mob huzzaed and applauded liim, as 
well as the fine company : it was 
splendid to see him waving his hat, 
and bowing, and laying his hand upon 
his Order of Generosity. He intro- 
duced Mr. Esmond to Mr. St. John 
and the Right Honorable Roljcrt 
Harley, Esquire, as he came out of the 
House walking between them ; and was 
pleased to make many flattering ob- 
servations regarding Mr. Esmond’s 
behavior during the three last cam- 
paigns. 

Mr. St. John (who had the most 
winning presence of any man I ever 
saw, excepting alwa5’S my peerless 
young Frank Castlewood) said he had 
heard of Mr. Esmond before from 
Captain Steele, and how he had helped 
Mr. Addison to write his famous poem 
of the “ Campaign.” 

“ ’T was as great an achievement as 
the victory of Blenheim itself,” Mr. 
Harley said, who was famous as a 
judge and patron of letters, and so, 
perhaps, it may be, — though for my 
part I think there are twenty beautiful 
lines, but all the rest is commonplace, 
and Mr. Addison’s hymn worth a 
thousand such poems. 

All the tOAvn was indignant at my 
Lord Duke’s unjust treatment of Gen- 
eral Webb, and applauded the vote 
of thanks Avhicli the House of Com- 
mons gave to the general for his victory 
of Wynendael. ’T is certain that the 
capture of Lille was the consequence 
of that lucky achievement, and the 
humiliation of the old Ficnch king, 
who was said to suffer more at the 
loss of this great city, than from any 
of the former victories our troo])s had 
won over him. And, I think, no small 
part of Mr. Webb’s exultation at his 
victory arose from the idea that Marl- 
borougdi had been disappointed of a 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


185 


great bribe tbe Frencb king bad 
promised liim, should the siege be 
raised. The very sum of money 
offered to liim was meutioued by the 
Duke’s enemies; and honest Mr. 
Webb chuckled at the notion, not only 
of beating the French, but of beating 
Marlborough too, and intercepting a 
convoy o^^ three millions of French 
crowns, that were on their way to the 
Generalissimo’s insatiable pockets. 
When the General’s lady went to the 
Queen’s drawing-room, all the Tory 
women crowded round her with con- 
gratulations, and made her a train 
greater than the Duchess of Marl- 
borough’s own. Feasts were given to 
the General by all the chiefs of the 
Tory party, who vaunted him as the 
Duke’s equal in military skill ; and 
perhaps used the worthy soldier as 
their instrument, whilst he thought 
they were but acknowledging his 
merits as a commander. As the Gen- 
eral’s aide-de-camp and favorite officer, 
Mr. Esmond came in for a share of 
his chiefs popularity, and was pre- 
sented to her Majesty, and advanced 
to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel at 
the request of his grateful chief. 

We may be sure there was one 
family in which any good fortune that 
happened to Esmond caused such a 
sincere pride and pleasure, that he, 
for his part, was thankful he could 
make them so happy. With these 
fond friends, Blenheim and Oudenarde 
seemed to be mere trifling incidents 
of the war; and Wynendael was its 
crowning victory. Esmond’s mistress 
never tired to hear accounts of the 
battle; and I think General Webb’s 
lady grew jealous of her, for the 
General was forever at Kensington, 
and talking on that delightful theme. 
As for his aide-de-camp, though, no 
doubt, Esmond’s own natural vanity 
was pleased at the little share of rep- 
utation which his good fortune had 
Avon him, yet it was chiefly precious 
to him (lie may say so, now that he 
hath long since outlived it), be- 
cause it ])leased his mistress, and, 
above all, because Beatrix valued it. 


As for the old DoAvager of Chelsey, 
never Avas an old Avoinan in all Eng- 
land more delighted nor more gracious 
than she. Esmond had his ([uarters 
in her Ladyshii)’s house, Avhere the 
domestics Avere instructed to consider 
him as their master. She bade him 
giA^e entertainments, of Avhich she de- 
frayed the charges, and Avas charmed 
Avhen his guests Avere carried away 
tipsy in their coaches. She must 
have his picture taken ; and accord- 
ingly he Avas painted by Mr. Jervas, 
in his red coat, and smiling upon a 
bomb-shell, Avhich Avas bursting at the 
corner of the piece. She voAved that 
unless he made a great match, she 
should never die easy, and Avas for- 
eA'cr bringing young ladies to Chelsey, 
Avith pretty faces and pretty fortunes, 
j^t the di-posal of the Coionel. He 
smiled to think how times Avere alter- 
ed with him, and of the early days in 
his father’s lifetime, Avhen a trembling 
page he stood before her, Avith her 
Ladyship’s basin and ewer, or crouch- 
ed in her coach-step. The only fault 
she found Avith him Avas, that he Avas 
more sober than an Esmond ought to 
be ; and Avould neither be carried to 
bed by his valet, nor lose his heart to 
any beauty, Avhether of St. James’s 
or CoA^ent Garden. 

What is the meaning of fidelity in 
loA'e, and Avhence the birth of it. 
’T is a state of mind that men fall 
into, and depending on the man 
rather than the Avoman. We love 
being in love, that ’s the truth, on ’t. 
If Ave had not met Joan, Ave should 
have met Kate, and adored her. We 
knoAV our mistresses are no better 
than many other Avomen, nor no pret- 
tier, nor no Aviser, nor no Avittier. 
’T is not for these reasons Ave love a 
Avoman, or for any special quality or 
charm I knoAv of; Ave might as Avell 
demand that a lady should be the 
tallest Avoman in the Avorld, like the 
Shropshire giantess,* as that she 
should bo a paragon in any other 

* ’T is not thus woman fovea . Col. E. 
hath owned to this folly for a score of women 
besides. — R. 


186 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


character, before we began to love her. 
Esmond’s mistress bad a thousand 
faults beside her charms; be knew 
both perfectly well ! Sbe was im- 
perious, she was light-minded, she 
was fiigbty, she was false, she had no 
reverence in her character; she was 
in everything, even in beauty, the 
contrast of her mother, who was the 
most devoted and the least selfish of 
women. Well, from the very first 
moment he saw her on the stairs at 
Walcote, Esmond knew he loved Bea- 
trix. .There might be better women, 
— he wanted that one. He cared for 
none other. Was it because she was 
gloriously beautiful ? Beautiful as 
she was, he had heard people say a 
score of times in their company that 
Beatrix’s mother looked as young, 
and was the handsomer of the two. 
Why did ber voice thrill in bis ear 
so ? She could not sing near so well 
as Nicolini or Mrs. Tofts ; nay, she 
sang out of tunc, and yet he liked to 
hear her better than St. Cecilia. She 
had not a finer complexion than Mrs. 
Steele (Dick’s wife, whom he had 
now got, and who ruled poor Dick 
Avith a rod of pickle), and yet to see 
her dazzled Esmond; he Avon Id shut 
his eyes, and the thought of her daz- 
zled him all the same. She A\'as bril- 
liant and lively in talk, but not so 
incomparably Avitty as her mother, 
Avho, Avhen she Avas cheerful, said the 
finest things ; but yet to hear her, 
and to be Avith her, Avas Esmond’s 
greatest pleasure. Days passed aAvay 
betAveen him and these ladies, he 
scarce kncAv hoAv. He poured his 
heart out to them, so as he never 
could in any other company, Avhere 
he hath generally passed for being 
moody, or supercilious and silent. 
This society* Avas more delightful 
than that of the greatest Avits to him. 
May Heaven pardon him the lies lie 
told the DoAvager of Chclsey, in order 
to get a pretext for going aAvay to 
Kensington : the business at the 6rd- 

* And, indeed, so was his to them, a thou- 
sand thousand times more charming, for 
where was his equal ? — R. 


nance Avhich he invented ; the inteh- 
vicAV Avith his General, the courts and 
statemen’s levees Avhieh he did n’t fre- 
quent and dcscril)e ; Avho Avorc a ncAV 
suit on Snnda}" at St. James’s or at 
the Queen’s birthday; Iioav many 
coaches filled the street at Mr. Har- 
ley’s levee : Iioav many bottles he had 
had the honor to drink overnight 
Avith Mr. St. John at the “ Cocoa- 
Tree,” or at the “ Garter” Avith Mr. 
Walpole and Mr. Steele. 

Mistress Beatrix Esmond had been 
a dozen times on the point of making 
great matches, so the Court scandal 
said ; but for his part Esmond ne\^er 
AA'ould belicA^e the stories against her ; 
and came back, after three years’ 
absence from her, not so frantic as 
he had been perhaps, but still hunger- 
ing after her and no other ; still hope- 
ful, still kneeling, with his heart in 
his hand for the yonng lady to take. 
We Avere noAv got to 1709. She Avas 
near lAventy-tAvo years old, and three 
years at Court, and Avithout a hus- 
band. 

“ ’T is not for Avant of being asked,” 
Lady CastleAvood said, looking into 
Esmond’s heart, as she could, Avith 
that perceptiveness affection gives. 
“ But she Avill make no mean matcb, 
Harry : she Avill not marry as I 
Avould haA’e her ; the person Avhom I 
should like to call my son, and Henry 
Esmond knoAvs Avho that is, is best 
served by my not pressing his claim. 
Beatrix is so wilful, that Avhat I 
Avould urge on her, she Avould be sure 
to resist. The man Avho AA’ould marry 
her Avill not be happy Avith her, un- 
less he be a great person, and can put 
her in a great position. Beatrix 
loA^es admiration more than love ; and 
longs, bevond all things, for com- 
mand. MHiy should a mother speak 
so of her child 1 You are my son, 
too, Harry. You should knoAv the 
truth about your sister. 1 thought 
you might cure yourself of your jias- 
sion,” my Lady added fondly* “ Other 
people can cure themselves of that 
folly, you knoAv. But I see you are 
still as infatuated as ever. When Ave 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


187 


read your name in the Gazette, I 
leaded for you, my poor boy. Poor 
oy, indeed ! Y'ou are growing a 
grave old gentleman, now, and I am 
an old woman. She likes your fame 
well enough, and she likes your per- 
son. She says you have wit, and 
fire, and good-breeding, and are more 
natural than the fine gentlemen of the 
Court. But this is not enougli. 
She wants a eominander-in-chief, and 
not a colonel. Were a duke to ask 
her, she would leave an carl whom 
she had promised. I told you so be- 
for(;. I know not how ray poor girl 
is so Avorldly.” 

“ Well,” says Esmond, “ a man 
can but give his best and his all. 
She has that from me. What little 
reputation I have won, I swear I 
cared for it because I thought Bea- 
trix would be pleased with it. What 
care I to be a colonel or a gen- 
eral ? Think you T will matter a 
few score years lienee, Avhat our fool- 
ish honors to-day are ? I would have 
had a little fame, that she might wear 
it in her hat. If I had anything 
better, I Avould endow her with it. If 
she Avants ray life, I Avould giv^e it 
her. If she marries another, I Avill 
say God bless him. I make no boast, 
nor no complaint. I think my fidelity 
is folly, perhaps. But so it is. 1 
cannot help myself. I love her. 
You are a thousand times better : 
the fondest, the fairest, the dearest of 
Avomen. Sure, my dear lady, I see 
all Beatrix’s faults as Avell as you do. 
But she is my fate. ’T is endurable. 
I shall not die for not having her. I 
think I should be no happier if I AAmn 
her. Que voulcz-vous 1 as my Lady 
of Chelsey Avould say, Jc I’aime.” 

“ I Avish she Avould have you,” said 
Harry’s fond mistress, giving a hand 
to him. He kissed the fair hand 
(’t Avas the prettie.st dimpled little 
hand in the Avorld, and my Lady 
Castleumod, though noAV almost forty 
years old, did not look to be Avithin 
ten years of her age). He kissed and 
kept her fair hand, as they, talked to- 
gether. 


“ Why,” says he, should she hear 
me? SI»c knows Avhat I Avould say. 
Far or near, she knoAvs I ’m her slave. 
I have sold myself for nothing, it may 
be. Well, ’t is the price 1 choose to 
take. I am Avorth nothing, or I am 
Avorth all.” 

“ You are such a treasure,” Es- 
mond’s mistress Avas pleased to say, 
“ that the Avoman Avho has your love 
should n’t change it aAvay against a 
kingdom, I think. I am a country- 
bred Avoman, and cannot say but the 
ambitions of the town seem mean to 
me. I never Avas awe-stricken by my 
Lady Duchess’s rank and finery, or 
afraid,” she added, Avith a sly laugh, 
“ of anything but her temper. I hear 
of Court ladies Avho pine because her 
Majesty looks cold on them ; and 
great noblemen Avho Avould giA^e a 
limb that they might Avear a garter 
on the other. This Avorldliness, 
Avhich I can’t comprehend, Avas born 
Avith Beatrix, who, on the first day 
of her Availing, AA'as a perfect courtier. 
We are like sisters, and she the eldest 
sister, somchoAV. She tells me I have 
a mean spirit. I laugh, and say she 
adores a coach-and-six. I cannot rea- 
son her out of her ambition. ’T is 
natural to her, as to me to loA-^e quiet, 
and be indifferent about rank and 
riches. What are they, Harry ? and 
for hoAV long do they last? Our 
home is not here.” She smiled as 
she spoke, and looked like an angel 
that Avas only on earth on a visit. 
“Our home is where the just are, 
and Avhere our sins and sorrows enter 
not. My father used to rebuke me, 
and say that I Avas too hopeful about 
heaven. But I cannot help my na- 
ture, and groAv obstinate as I groAv to 
be an old Avoman ; and as I love my 
children so, sure our Father Ioa'cs ns 
Avith a thousand and a thousand 
times greater love. It must be that 
Ave shall meet yonder, and be happy. 
Y'es, you — and my children, and my 
dear lord. Do you knoAV, Harry, 
since his death, it has ahvays seemed 
to me as if his love came back to me, 
and that Ave are parted no more. 


188 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


Perhaps he is here now, Harry, — I 
flunk he is. Forj^iven I am sure he 
is: even Mr. Atterhury absolved him, 
and he died forj^ivin^. O, what a 
noble heart he had ! How p^enerous 
he was ! I was but fifteen and a ehild 
when he married me. How good he 
was to stoop to me ! He was always 
good to the poor and humble.”^ She 
stopped, then presently, Avith a 'pecu- 
liar expression, as if her eyes were 
looking into heaven, and saAV my 
Lord there, she smiled, and gave a 
little laugh. “ I laugh to see you, 
sir,” she says ; “ when you come, it 
seems «as if you never were away.” 
One may put her words down, and 
remember them, but bow describe her 
sweet tones, sweeter than music ! 

My young lord <iid not come home 
at the end of the campaign, and wrote 
that he was kept at Bruxelles on mil- 
itary duty. Indeed, I believe he was 
engaged in laying siege to a certain 
lady, who was of the suite of Ma- 
dame de Soissons, the Prince of Sa- 
voy’s mother, who was just dead, and 
Avho, like the Flemish fortresses, Avas 
taken and retaken a great number of 
times during the Avar, and occupied 
by French, English, and Imperialists. 
Of course, Mr. Esmond did not think 
fit to enlighten Lady CastlcAA’ood re- 
garding the young scapegrace’s do- 
ings : nor had he said a AAord about 
the affair Avith Lord Mohun, knoAving 
hov/^ abhorrent that man’s name Avas 
to his mistress. Frank did not Avaste 
much time or money on pen and ink; 
and, Avhen Harry came home Avith his 
General, only Avrit tAvo lines to his 
mother, to say his Avound in the leg 
Avas almost healed, that he AAmuld keep 
his coming of age next year, — that 
the duty aforesaid Avould keep him at 
Bruxelles, and that Cousin Harry 
AAmuld tell all the news. 

But from Bruxelles, knoAving hoAv 
the Lady CastleAvmod ahvays liked to 
haA^e a letter about the famous 29th 
of Hecember, my Lord Avrit her a 
long and full one, and in this he 
must have described the affair with 
Mohun ; for when Mr. Esmond came 


to visit his mistress one day, early in 
the ncAv year, to his great Avondcr- 
ment, she and her daughter hoth came 
up and saluted him, and after them 
the DoAvager of Chclsey, too, Avhose 
chairman had just brought her Lady- 
ship from her village to Kensington 
across the fields. After this honor, I 
say, from the two ladies of Castle- 
wood, the DoAvager came forward in 
great state, Avith her grand, tall head- 
dress of King James’s reign, that she 
never forsook, and said, “ Cousin 
Henry, all our family have met ; and 
Ave thank you, cousin, for your noble 
conduct toAvards the head of our 
house.” And pointing to her blush- 
ing cheek, she made Mr. Esmond 
aAvare that he Avas to enjoy the rap- 
ture of an embrace there. Having 
saluted one cheek, she turned to him 
the other. “ Cousin Harry,” said 
both the other ladies, in a little cho- 
rus, “Ave thank you for your noble 
conduct ” ; and then Harry became 
aAvare that the story of the Lille affair 
had come to his kinsAvomen’s ears. 
It pleased him to hear them all salut- 
ing him as one of their family. 

The tables of the dining-room Avere 
laid for a great entertainment; and 
the ladies Avere in gala dresses, — my 
Lady of Chclsey in her highest ionr, 
my Lady Viscountess out of black, 
and looking fair and happy a ravir ; 
and the Maid of Honor attired Avith 
that splendor Avhich naturally distin- 
guished her, and wearing on her beau- 
tiful breast the French officer’s star 
Avhieh Frank had sent home after 
Ramillies. 

“ You see, ’t is a gala day Avith us,” 
says she, glancing doAvn to the star 
complacently, “ and Ave liaA'e our or- 
ders on. Does not mamma look 
charming'? ’T Avas I dressed her!” 
Indeed, Esmond’s dear mistress, 
blushing as he looked at her, Avith 
her beautiful, fair hair, and an ele- 
gant dress, according to the mode, r.])- 
pcared to have the shape and com- 
plexion of a girl of tAveuty. 

On the table Avas a fine sAvord, Avith 
a red velvet scabbard, and a beautiful 


THE HISTORY OF HENRV" ESMOND. 


189 


chased silver handle, with a hlne rib- 
bon for a sword-knot. “ What is 
this 1 ” says tlie Captain, going up to 
look at this pretty piece. 

]Mrs. Beatrix advanced towards it. 
“ Kneel down,” says she : “ we dub 
you our knight with tliis,” — and she 
waved tlie sword over his head. “ My 
Lady Dowager hath given tlie sword ; 
and I give the ribbon, and mamma 
hath sewn on the fringe.” 

“ Put the sword on him, Beatrix,” 
says her mother. “ You arc our 
knight, Harry, — our true knight. 
Take a mother’s thanks and prayers 
for defending her son, my dear, dear 
friend.” She could say no more, and 
even the Dowager was Affected, for a 
couple of rebellious tears made sad 
marks down those wrinkled old roses 
which Esmond had just been allowed 
to salute. 

“ We had a letter from dearest 
Frank,” his mother said, “ three days 
since, whilst you were on your visit 
to your friend Captain Steele, at 
Hampton. He told us all that you 
had done, and how nobly you had put 
yourself between him and that — that 
wretch.” 

“ And I adopt you from this day,” 
says the Dowager ; “ and I Avish I 
was richer, for your sake, son Es- 
mond,” she added with a wave of her 
hand ; and as Mr. Esmond dutifully 
went down on his knee before her 
Ladyship, she cast her eyes up to the 
ceiling (the gilt chandelier, and the 
twelve wax-candles in it, for the party 
was numerous), and invoked a bless- 
ing from that quarter upon the newly 
adopted son. 

“ Dear Frank,” says the other vis- 
countess, “ how fond he is of his mili- 
tary profession ! He is studying for- 
tification very hard. I Avish he were 
here. We shall keep his coniing of 
age at CiistlcAvood next year.” 

“ If the campaign permit us,” says 
Mr. Esmond. 

“ I am never afraid Avhen he is with 
you,” cries the boy’s mother. “ I am 
sure my Henry will always defend 
him.” 


“ But there Avill be a peace before 
next year ; Ave knoAV it for certain,” 
cries the Maid of Honor. “ Lord 
Marlborough Avill be dismissed, and 
that horrible duchess turned out of all 
her places. Her Majesty Avon’t speak 
to her noAv. Did you see her at 
Bushy, Harry 1 She is furious, and 
she ranges about the park like a lion- 
ess, and tears people’s eyes out.” 

“ And the Princess Anne Avill send 
for somebody,” says my Lady of 
Chelsey, taking out her medal and 
kissing it. 

“Did you see the King at Oude- 
narde, Harry 1 ” his mistress asked. 
She Avas a stanch Jacobite, and 
Avould no more have thought of deny- 
ing her king than her God. 

“ I saw the young Hanoverian 
only,” Harry said. “ The Chevalier 
de St. George — ” 

“ The King, sir, the King! ” said 
the ladies and Miss Beatrix ; and she 
clapped her pretty hands, and cried, 
“ Vive le Roy.” 

By this time there came a thunder- 
ing knock, that drove in the doors of 
the house almost. It Avas three o’clock, 
and the company Avere arriving ; and 
presently the servant announced Cap- 
tain Steele and his lady. 

Captain and Mrs. Steele, Avho Averc 
the first to arrive, had driven to Ken- 
sington from their country-house, the 
Hov'el at Hampton Wick. “ Not 
from our mansion in Bloomsbury 
Square,” as Mrs. Steele took care to 
inform the ladies. Indeed Harry had 
ridden aAvay from Hampton that very 
morning, leaving the couple by the 
ears ; for from the chamber Avhere he 
lay, in a bed that Avas none of the 
cleanest, and kept aAvake by the com- 
pany Avhich he had in his OAvn bed, 
and the quarrel which was going on 
in the next room, he could hear both 
night and morning the curtain lecture 
Avliich Mrs. Steele aa'us in the habit 
of administering to poor Dick. 

At night it did not matter so much 
for the culprit ; Dick Avas fuddled, 
and when in that Avay no scolding 
could interrupt his benevolence. Mr. 


190 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


Esmond could hear him coaxing and 
speaking in that maudlin manner, 
which punch and claret produce, to 
his beloved Prue, and beseeching her 
to remember that there was a disti- 
wisht officer ithe rex rooh, Avho would 
overhear her. She Avent on, neverthe- 
less, calling him a drunken wretch, 
and was only interrupted in her 
harangues by the Captain’s snor- 
ing. 

In the morning, the unhappy vic- 
tim awoke to a headache and con- 
sciousness, and the dialogue of the 
night was resumed. “ Why do you 
bring captains home to dinner when 
there’s not a guinea in the house? 
How am I to give dinners when you 
leave me without a shilling? How 
am I to go trapesing to Kensington 
in my yellow satin sack before all the 
fine company ! I ’vc nothing fit to 
put on; I never have”; and so the 
dispute went on, — Mr. Esmond inter- 
rupting the talk when it seemed to be 
growing too intimate by bloAving his 
nose as loudly as ever he could, at the 
sound of which trumpet there came a 
lull. But Dick was charming, though 
his Avife Avas odious, and ’t Avas to gi\'e 
Mr. Steele pleasure, that the ladies of 
CastleAvood, Avho Avere ladies of no 
small fashion, invited Mrs. Steele. 

Besides the Captain and his lady 
there Avas a great and notable assem- 
blage of company ; my Lady of Chel- 
sey having sent her lackeys and liv- 
eries to aid the modest attendance at 
Kensington. There Avas Lieutenant- 
General Webb, Harry’s kind patron, 
of Avhom the DoAvager took possession, 
and Avho resplended in veh'ot and gold- 
lace; there AA^as Harry’s ncAv acquaint- 
ance, the Bight Honorable Henry St. 
John, Esquire, the General’s kinsman, 
Avho Avas charmed Avith the Lady Cas- 
tlcAA'ood, even more than Avith her 
daughter; there Avas one of the great- 
est noblemen in the kingdom, the 
Scots Duke of Hamilton, just created 
Duke of Brandon in England; and 
tAvo other noble lords of the Tory 
party, my Lord Ashburnham, and 
another I have forgot ; and for ladies, j 


her Grace the Duchess of Ormonde 
and her daughters, the Lady Mary 
and the Lady Betty, the former one 
of Mistress Beatrix’s colleagues in 
Avaiting on the Queen. 

“ What a party of Tories!” Avhis- 
pered CapUiin Steele to Esmond, as 
Ave Avere assembled in the parlor be- 
fore dinner. Indeed, all the company 
present, save Steele, AA^ere of that fac- 
tion. 

Mr. St. John made his special com- 
pliments to Mrs. Steele, and so 
charmed her that she declared she 
Avould have Steele a Tory too. 

“ Or Avill you have me a Whig ? ” 
says Mr. St. John. “ I think, madam, 
30 U could convert a man to any- 
thing.” 

“If Mr. St. John ever comes to 
Bloomsbury Square I Avill teach him 
what IknoAv,” says Mrs. Steele, drop- 
ping her handsome eyes. “Do you 
knoAv Bloomsbury Square ? ” 

“ Do I knoAv the Mall? Do 1 knoAV 
the Opera ? Do I knoAV the reigning 
toast ? Why, Bloomsbury is the very 
height of the mode,” says Mr. St. 
John. “ ’T is rus in urhe. Y"ou haA'e 
gardens all the Avay to Hampstead, 
and palaces round about you, — 
Southampton House and Montague 
House.” 

“ Where you Avretches go and fight 
duels,” cries Mrs. Steele. 

“ Of Avhich the ladies are the cause ! ” 
says her entertainer. “ Madam, is 
Dick a good SAvordsman ? Hoav 
charming the ‘Tatler’ is! We all 
recognized your portrait in the 49th 
number, and I haA^e been dying to 
knoAv you eA’er since I read it. ‘ As- 
pasia must be alloAved to be the first of 
the beauteous order of loA^e.’ Doth not 
the passage run so ? *In this accom- 
plished lady love is the constant effect, 
though it is never the design; yet 
though her mien carries much more 
invitation than command, to behold 
her is an immediate check to loose 
behavior, and to love her is a liberal 
education.’ ” 

“0, indeed!” lays Mrs. Steele, 
I who did not seem to understand a 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 191 


vTord of -vvliat the gentleman was say- 
ing. ^ 

“ T\ ho could fail to he accom- 
lishcd under sucli a mistress'? ” says 
Ir. St. John, still gallant and bow- 
ing. 

“ Mistress ! upon my word, sir ! ” 
cries the lady. “ If you mean me, sir, 
I would have you know that Iain the 
Captain’s wife.” 

“ Sure we all know it,” answers 
Mr. St. John, keeping his eountenance 
very gravely ; and Steele broke in say- 
ing, “ ’T was not about Mrs. Steele I 
writ that paper, — though I am sure 
she is worthy of any compliment I can 
])ay her, — but of the Lady Elizabeth 
Hastings.” 

“ I hear Mr. Addison is equally fa- 
mous as a wit and a poet,” says Mr. 
St. John. “ Is it true that his hand 
is to be found in your ‘ Tatler,’ Mr. 
Steele ? ” 

“ Whether ’t is the sublime or the 
humorous, no man can come near 
him,” cries Steele. 

“ A fig, Dick, for your Mr. Addi- 
son ! ” cries out his lady ; a gentle- 
man who gives himself such airs and 
holds his head so high now. I hope 
your Ladyship thinks as I do ; I can’t 
bear those very fair men with white 
eyelashes, — a black man for me.” 
(All the black men at table ap- 
plauded, and made Mrs. Steele a bow 
for this compliment.) “As for this 
Mr. Addison,” she went on, “ he 
comes to dine with the Captain some- 
times, never says a word to me, and 
tjien they walk up stairs, both tipsy, to 
a dish of tea. I remember your Mr. 
Addison when he had but one coat to 
his back, and that with a patch at the 
elbow.” 

“Indeed, — a patch at the elbow! 
You interest me,” says Mr. St. John. 
“ ’T is charming to hear of one man 
of letters from the charming wife of 
another.” 

“ La, I could tell you ever so much 
about ’em,” continues the voluble 
lady. “ What do you think the Cap- 
tain has got now 1 — a little hunchback 
fellow,— a little hop-o’-my-thumb crea- 


ture that he calls a poet, — a little Po- 
pish brat ! ” 

“ Hush, there are two in the room,” 
whispers her companion. 

“ Well, I call him Popish because 
his name is Pope,” says the lady. 
“ ’T is only my joking way. And 
this little dwarf of a fellow has wrote 
a pastoral poem, — all about shepherds 
and shepherdesses, you know.” 

“A shepherd should have a little 
crook,” says my mistress, laughing 
from her end of the table : on which 
Mrs. Steele said, “ She did not know, 
but the Captain brought home this 
queer little creature when she was in 
bed with her first boy, and it was a 
mercy he had come no sooner; and 
Dick raved about his genus, and was 
always raving about some nonsense or 
other.” 

“ Which of the ‘ Tatlers ’ do you 
prefer, Mrs. Steele '? ” asked Mr. St. 
John. 

“ I never read but one, and think 
it all a pack of rubbish, sir,” says the 
lady. “ Such stuff about Bickerstaffe, 
and Distaff, and Quarterstatf, as it all 
is ! There ’s the Captain going on 
still with the Burgundy, — 1 know 
he ’ll be tipsy before he stops, — Cap- 
tain Steele!” 

“ I -drink to your eyes, my dear,” 
says the Captain, who seemed to think 
his wife charming, and to receive as 
genuine all the satiric compliments 
which Mr. St. John paid her. 

All this Avhile the Maid of Honor 
had been trying to get Mr. Esmond to 
talk, and no doubt voted him a dull 
fellow. For, by some mistake, just 
as he was going to pop into the vacant 
place, he was placed far away from 
Beatrix’s chair, who sat between his 
Grace and my Lord Ashburnham, and 
shrugged her lovely white shoulders, 
and cast a look as if to say, “ Pity 
me,” to her cousin. My Lord Duke 
and his young neighbor were presently 
in a very animated and clo.se conver- 
sation. Mrs. Beatrix could no more 
help using her eyes than the sun can 
help shining, and setting those it 
shines on a-burning. By the time 


192 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


the first course was done the dinner 
seemed long to Esmond ; by the time 
the soup came lie fancied they must 
liavc been liours at table : and as for 
the sweets and jellies he thought they 
nevx'r would be done. 

At length the ladies rose, Beatrix 
throwing a Parthian glance at her 
Duke as she retreated ; a fresh bottle 
and glasses were fetched, and toasts 
were called. Mr. St. John asked his 
Grace the Duke of Hamilton and the 
company to drink to the health of his 
Grace the Duke of Brandon. Anoth- 
er lord gave General Webb’s health, 
“and may he get the command the 
bravest officer in the world deserves.” 
Mr. Webb thanked the company, com- 
plimented his aide-de-camp, and 
fought his famous battle over again. 

“ II est fatiguant,” whispers Mr. 
St. John, “ avec sa trompettc de 
Wynendael.” 

Captain Steele, who was not of our 
side, loyally gave the health of the 
Duke of Marlborough, the greatest 
general of the age. 

“ I drink to the greatest general 
with all my heart,” says Mr. Webb ; 
“ there can be no gainsaying that 
character of him. My glass goes to 
the General, and not to the Duke, Mr. 
Steele.” And the stout old gentle- 
man emptied his bumper ; to which 
Dick replied by filling and emptying 
a pair of brimmers, one for the Gen- 
eral and one for the Duke. 

And now his Grace of Hamilton, 
rising up with flashing eyes (we had 
all been drinking pretty freely), pro- 
posed a toast to the lovely, to the in- 
comparable Mrs. Beatrix Esmond ; we 
all drank it with cheers, and my Lord 
Ashburnham especially, with a shout 
of enthusiasm. 

“ What a pity there is a Duchess of 
Hamilton,” whispers St. John, who 
drank more wine and yet was more 
steady than most of the others, and 
we entei'cd the drawing-room where 
the ladies were at their tea. As for poor 
Dick, we were obliged to leave him 
alone at the dining-table, where he 
was hiccuping out the lines from the 


“ Campaign,” in which the greatest 
poet had celebrated the greatest gen- 
eral in the world ; and Harry Esmond 
found him, half an hour aftenvards, 
in a more advanced stage of liquor, 
and weeping about the treachery of 
Tom Boxer, 

The drawing-room was all dark to 
poor Harry, in spite of the grand illu- 
mination. Beatrix scarce spoke to 
him. When my Lord Duke went 
away, she practised upon the next in 
rank, and plied my young Lord Ash- 
burnham with all the fire of her eyes 
and the fascinations of her wit. 
Most of the party were set to cards, 
and Mr. St. John, after yawning in 
the face of Mrs, Steele, whom he did 
not care to pursue any more ; and 
talking in his most brilliant animated 
way to Lady Castlewood, whom he 
pronounced to be beautiful, of a far 
higher order of beauty than her 
daughter, presently took his leave, 
and went his way. The rest of the 
company speedily followed, my Lord 
Ashburnham the last, throwing fiery 
glances at the smiling young tempt- 
ress, who had bewitched more hearts 
than his in her thrall. 

No doubt, as a kinsman of the 
house, Mr. Esmond thought fit to be 
the last of all in it ; he remained after 
the coaches had rolled away, — after 
his dowager aunt’s chair and flam- 
beaux had marched off in the darkness 
towards Cholscy, and the town’s-peo- 
ple had gone to bed, who had been 
drawn into the square to gape at the 
unusual assemblage of chairs and 
chariots, lackeys, and torch-men. 
The poor mean wretch lingered 
yet for a few minutes, to see wheth- 
er the girl would vouchsafe him a 
smile, or a parting word of consola- 
tion. But her enthusiasm of the 
morning was quite died out, or she 
chose to be in a different mood. She 
fell to joking about the dowdy appear- 
ance of Lady Betty, and mimicked 
the vulgarity of Mrs. Steele; and 
then she put up her little hand to her 
mouth and yawned, lighted a taper, 
and shrugged her shoulders, and 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


193 


dropping Mr. Esmond a saucy cour- 
tesy, sailed off to bed. 

“ The day began so well, Henry, 
that I had hoped it might have end- 
ed better, was all the consolation 
that poor Esmond’s fond mistress 
could give him; and as he trudged 
home through the dark alone, he 
thought with bitter rage in his heart, 
and a feeling of almost revolt against 
the sacrifice he had made; — ‘‘She 
^^•ould have me,” thought he, “ had I 
but a name to give her. But for my 
promise to her father, I might have 
my rank and my mistress too.” 

I suppose a man’s vanity is strong- 
er than any other passion in him ; for I 
blush, even now, as I recall the hu- 
miliation of those distant days, the 
memory of which still smarts, though 
the fever of balked desire has passed 
away more than a score of years ago. 
When the writer’s descendants come 
to read this memoir, I wonder will 
they have lived to experience a simi- 
lar defeat and shame 1 Will they 
ever have knelt to a woman, who has 
listened to them, and played with 
them, and laughed with them, — who 
beckoning them with lures and 
caresses, and with Yes smiling from 
her eyes, has tricked them on to their 
knees, and turned her back and left 
them. All this shame Mr. Esmond 
had to undergo; and he submitted, 
and revolted, and presently came 
crouching back for more. 

After this feste, my young Lord 
Ashburnham’s coach was forever roll- 
ing in and out of Kensington Square ; 
his lady-mother came to visit Es- 
mond’s mistress, and at every assem- 
bly in the town, wherever the Maid 
of Honor made her appearance, you 
might be pretty sure to see the young 
gentleman in a new suit every week, 
and decked out in all the finery that 
his tailor or embroiderer could furnish 
for him. My Lord was forever pay- 
ing Mr. Esmond compliments : bid- 
ding him to dinner, offering him horses 
to ride, and giving him a thousand 


uncouth marks of respect and good- 
will. At last, one night at the cofiee- 
house, whither my Lord came consid- 
erably flushed and excited with drink, 
he rushes up to Mr. Esmond, and 
cries out, — “ Give me joy, my dear- 
est Colonel ; I am the happiest of 
men.” 

“ The happiest of men needs no 
dearest colonel to give him joy,” says 
Mr. Esmond. “ What is the cause 
of this supreme felicity 1 ” 

“ Have n’t you heard ? ” says he. 
“Don’t you know? I thought the 
family told you everything : the ador- 
able Beatrix hath promised to be 
mine.” 

“ What ! ” cries out Mr. Esmond, 
who had spent happy hours with 
Beatrix that very morning, — had 
writ verses for her, that she had sung 
at the harpsichord. 

“ Yes,” says he ; “ I waited on her 
to-day. I saw you walking towards 
Knightsbridge as I passed in my 
coach; and she looked so lovely, and 
spoke so kind, that I couldn’t help 
going down on my knees, and — and 
— sure I am the happiest of men in 
all the world ; and 1’ m very young ; 
but she says I shall get older : and 
you know I shall be of age in four 
months ; and there ’s very little differ- 
ence between us ; and I ’m so happy. 
I should like to treat the company to 
something. Let us have a bottle — a 
dozen bottles, — and drink the health 
of the finest woman in England.” 

Esmond left the young lord toss- 
ing off bumper after bumper, and 
strolled away to Kensington to ask 
whether the news was true. ’T was 
only too sure : his mistress’s sad, 
compassionate face told him the story ; 
and then she related what particulars 
of it she knew, and how my young 
lord had made his offer, half an hoar 
after Esmond went away that morn- 
ing, and in the very ’room Avherc the 
song lay yet on the harp.sichord, 
which Esmond had writ, and they 
had sung together. 


9 


M 


194 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


BOOK III. 

CONTAINING THE END OF MR. ESMOND’S ADVENTURES IN ENGLAND. 


CHAPTER I. 

I COME TO AN END OF MY BATTLES 
AND BRUISES. 

That feverish desire to gain a 
little reputation which Esmond had 
had,- left him now perhaps that he 
had attained some portion of his 
wish, and the great motive of his 
ambition was over. His desire for 
military honor was that it miglit raise 
him in'Beatrix’s eyes. ^T was, next 
to nobility and wealth, the only kind 
of rank she valued. It was the stake 
quickest won or lost too ; for law is a 
very long game that requires a life to 
practise; and to be distinguished in 
letters or the Church would not have 
forwarded the poor gentleman’s plans 
in the least. So he had no suit to 
play but the red one, and he played 
it ; and this, in truth, was the reason 
of his speedy promotion ; for he j 
exposed himself more than most j 
gentlemen do, and risked more to 
win more. Is he the only man that ; 
hath set his life against a stake which 
may not be worth the winning ? 
Another risks his life (and his honor, 
too, sometimes) against a bundle of 
bank-notes, or a yard of blue ribbon, 
or a seat in Parliament; and some 
for the mere pleasure and excitement 
of the sport ; as a field of a hundred j 
huntsmen will do, each out-bawling ; 
and out-galloping the other at the tail ; 
of a dirty fox, that is to be the prize j 
of the foremost happy conqueror. i 

When he heard this news of I 
Beatrix’s engagement in marriage, I 
Colonel Esmond knocked under to I 
his fate, and resolved to surrender his | 
sword, that could win him nothing 1 
now he cared for ; and in this dismal ' 
frame of mind he determined to ' 
retire from the regiment, to the great j 
delight of the captain next in rank I 


to him, who happened to be a young 
gentleman of good fortune, who 
eagerly paid Mr. Esmond a thousand 
guineas for his majority in Webb’s 
regiment, and was knocked on the 
head the next campaign. Perhaps 
Esmond would not have been sorry 
to share his fate. He was more the 
Knight of the Woful Countenance 
than ever he had been. His moodi- 
ness must have made him perfectly 
odious to his friends under the tents, 
w'ho like a jolly fellow, and laugh at 
a melancholy warrior always sighing 
after Dulcinea at home. 

Both the ladies of Castlewood 
approved of Mr. Esmond quitting the 
army, and his kind General coincided 
in his wish of retirement, and helped 
in the transfer of his commission, 
which brought a pretty sum into his 
pocket. But when the Commander- 
in-Chief came home, and was forced, 
in spite of himself, to appoint Lieu- 
tenant-General Webb to the command 
of a division of the army in Flanders, 
the Lieutenant-General prayed Colo- 
nel Esmond so urgently to be his 
aide-de-camp and military secretary, 
that Esmond could not resist his kind 
patron’s entreaties, and again took 
the field, not attached to any regiment, 
but under Webb’s orders. What 
must have been the continued agonies 
of fears * and apprehensions which 
racked the gentle breasts of wives 
and matrons in those dreadful da vs, 
when every Gazette brought accounts 
of deaths and battles, and when, the 
pi-esent anxiety over, and the beloved 
person escaped, the doubt still re- 
mained that a battle might be fought, 
possibly, of which the next Flanders 
letter would bring the account ; so 
they, the poor tender creatures, had 

■* What indeed ? Ps. xci. 2, 3, 7. — R. E. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


195 


to go on sickening and trembling 
through the whole campaign. What- 
ever these terrors were on the part of 
Esmond’s mistress (and that tendercst 
of women must have felt them most 
keenly for both her sons, as she called 
them), she never allowed tlieni 
outwardly to appear, but hid her 
apprehension as she did her char- 
ities and devotion. ’T was only by 
chance that Esmond, wandering in 
Kensington, found his mistress 
coming out of a mean cottage there, 
and heard that she had a score of 
poor retainers, whom she visited and 
comforted in their sickness and 
poverty, and who blessed her daily. 
She attended the early church daily 
(though of a Sunday, especially, she 
encouraged and advanced all sorts of 
cheerfulness and innocent gayety in 
her little household) : and by notes 
entered into a table-book of hers at 
this time, and devotional compositions 
writ with a sweet artless fervor, such 
as the best divines could not surpass, 
showed how fond her heart was, how 
humble and pious her spirit, Avliat 
pangs of apprehension she endured 
silently, and Avith Avhat a faithful 
reliance she committed the care of 
those she loved to the aAvful Dispenser 
of death and life. 

As for her Ladyship at Chelsey, 
Esmond’s neAvly adopted mother, she 
Avas now of an age Avhen the danger 
of any second party doth not disturb 
the rest much. She cared for trumps 
more than for most things in life. 
She Avas firm enough in her OAvn 
faith, but no longer A^ery bitter against 
ours. She had a very good-natured, 
easy French director. Monsieur Gau- 
thier by name, Avho Avas a gentleman 
of the Avorld, and Avould tak^e a hand 
of cards Avith Dean Atterbury, my 
Lady’s neighbor at Chelsey, ami Avas 
Avell Avith all the High Church party. 
No doubt Monsieur Gauthier knew 
Avhat Esmond’s peculiar position Avas, 
for he corresponded Avith Holt, and 
always treated Colonel Esmond Avith 
particular respect and kindness ; but 
for good reasons the Colonel and the 


I Abbe never spoke on this matter to- 
I gether, and so they remained perfect 
good friends. 

All the frecpientcrs of my Lady of 
Chelsey’s house Avere of the Tory and 
High Church party. Madam Bea- 
trix Avas as frantic about the King as 
her elderly kinsAvomen ; she Avore his 
picture on her heart ; she had a piece 
of his hair; she A’OAA^cd he Avas the 
most injui'cd, and gallant, and accom- 
plished, and unfortunate, and beauti- 
ful of princes. Steele, avIio quarrelled 
Avith very many of his Tory friends, 
but never Avith Esmond, used to tell 
the Colonel that his kinsAvoman’s 
house Avas a rendezA'ous of Tory in- 
trigues ; that Gauthier AA'as a spy ; 
that Atterbury Avas a spy ; that letters 
Avere constantly going from that house 
to the Queen at St. Germains; on 
Avhich Esmond, laughing, Avould re- 
ply, that they used to say in the army 
the Duke of Marlborough Avas a s])y 
too, and as much in correspondence 
Avith that family as any Jesuit. And 
Avithout entering very eagerly into 
the controA’crsy, Esmond had frankly 
taken the side of his family. It seem- 
ed to him that King James the Third 
Avas undoubtedly King of England 
by right : and at his sister’s death it 
Avould be better to have him than a 
foreigner OA'^er us. No man admired 
King William more ; a hero and a 
conqueror, the braA'est, justest, Avisest 
of men, — but ’t Avas by the SAVord he 
conquered the country, and held and 
governed it by the very same right 
that the great CromAvell held it, Avho 
Avas truly and greatly a sovereign. 
But that a foreign despotic prince, 
out of Germany, Avho happened to be 
descended from King James the First, 
should take possession of this em- 
pire, seemed to Mr. Esmond a mon- 
.strous injustice — at least, CA'cry Eng- 
lishman had a right to protest, and 
the English Prince, the lieir-at-laAV, 
the first of all. What man of spirit 
Avith such a cause AAmuld not back it? 
What man of honor Avith such a 
croAvn to Avin AV’ould not fight for it? 
But that race Avas destined. That 


196 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


Prince had himself against him, an 
enemy he could not overcome. He 
never dared to draw his sword, though 
he had it. He let his chances slip by 
as he lay in the lap of o))era-girls, or 
snivelle<l at the knees of ])riests ask- 
ing pardon ; and the blood of heroes, 
and the devotedness of honest hearts, 
and endurance, courage, fidelity, were 
all spent for him in vain. 

But let us return to my Lady of 
Chelsey, who, when her son Esmond 
announced to her Ladyship that he 
proposed to make the ensuing cam- 
paign, took leave of him with perfect 
alacrity, and was down to piquet 
with her gentlewoman before he had 
well quitted the room on his last visit. 
“ Tierce to a king,” were the last 
words he ever heard her say : the 
game of life was pretty nearly over 
for the good lady, and three months 
afterwards she took to her bed, where 
she nickered out without any pain, so 
the Abbe Gauthier wrote over to Mr. 
Esmond, then with his General on 
the frontier of France. The Lady 
Castlewood was with her at her end- 
ing, and had Avritten too, but these 
letters must have been taken by a 
privateer in the packet that brought 
them, for Esmond knew nothing of 
their contents until his return to 
England. 

]My Lady Castlewood had left CA’ery- 
thing to ( Alonel Esmond, “ as a rep- 
aration for the Avrong done to him ” ; 
T Avas Avrit in her Avill. But her for- 
tune Avas not much, for it neA'er had 
been large, and the honest viscountess 
had Avisely sunk most of the money 
she had upon an annuity which ter- 
minated Avith her life. HoAvever, 
there Avas the house and furniture, 
plate and pictures at Chelsey, and a 
sum of money lying at her merchant’s. 
Sir Josiah Child, Avhich altogether 
Avonld realize a sum of near three 
hundred pounds per annum, so that 
Mr. Esmond found himself, if not 
rich, at least easy for life. Likewise 
there were the famous diamonds Avhich 
had been said to be Avorth fabulous 
sums, though the goldsmith pro- 


nounced they Avould fetch no more 
than four thousand pounds. These 
diamonds, hoAvever, Colonel Esmond 
reserved, having a special use for 
them : but the Chelsey house, plate, 
goods, &c., Avith the exeeption of a 
few articles Avhich he kept back, Avere 
sold by his orders ; and the sums re- 
sulting from the sale invested in the 
public securities so as to realize the 
aforesaid annual income of three hun- 
dred pounds. 

Having noAv something to leaA’C, he 
made a Avill and despatched it home. 
The army Avas noAV in presence of the • 
enemy ; and a great battle expected 
every day. ’T Avas kiiOAvn that the 
General-in-Chief Avas in disgrace, and 
the parties at home strong against 
him, and there Avas no stroke this 
great and resolute player Avould not 
venture to recall his fortune Avhen it 
seemed desperate. Frank CastleAvood 
was with Colonel Esmond ; his Gen- 
eral having gladly taken the young 
nobleman on to his staff. His studies 
of fortifications at Bruxelles wereoA er 
by this time. The fort he Avas be- 
sieging had yielded, I believe, and my 
Lord had not only marched in Avith 
flying colors, but marched out again, 
fie used to tell his boyish Avickednesses 
with admirable humor, and Avas the 
most charming young scrapcgrace in 
the army. 

’T is needless to say that Colonel , 
Esmond had left eAX-ry penny of his 
little fortune to this boy. It was the 
Colonel’s firm convietion that the 
next battle Avould put an end to him ; 
for he felt aAveary of the sun, and 
quite ready to bid that and the earth 
fareAvell. Frank Avould not listen to 
his comrade’s gloomy forebodings, but 
SAvore they Avould keep his birthday 
at CastleAvood that autumn, after 
the campaign. He had heard of the 
engagement at home. “ If Prince 
Eugene goes to London,” says Frank, 
“and ’Trix can get hold of him, 
she ’ll jilt Ashburnham for his High- 
ness. I tell you, she used to make 
eyes at the Duke of Marlborough, 
when she was only fourteen, and 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


197 


oglinf? poor little Blandford. I 
Avould n’t marry her, Harry, — no, 
not if her eyes were twice as big. 
I ’ll take my fun. I ’ll enjoy for the 
next three yeai*s every ])ossible pleas- 
ure. I ’ll sow my wild oats then, 
and marry some quiet, steady, modest, 
sensible viscountess; hunt my har- 
riers ; and settle down at Castlcwood. 
Perhaps I ’ll represent the county, — 
no, damme, you shall represent the 
county. You have the brains of the 
family. By the Lord, my dear old 
Harry, you have the best head and 
the kindest heart in all the army ; 
and every man says so, — and when 
the Queen dies, and the King comes 
back, why should n’t you go to the 
House of Commons, and be a minis- 
ter, and be made a peer, and that 
sort of thing ? You be sliot in the 
next action ! I wager a dozen of 
Burgundy you are not touched. Mo- 
hun is well of his Avound. He is 
always Avith Corporal John now. As 
soon as ever I see his ugly face I ’ll 
spit in it. I took lessons of Father 
— of Captain Holt at Bruxelles. 
What a man that is ! He knows 
eA’^ery thing.” Esmond bade Frank 
hav'C a care; that Father Holt’s 
knoAvledge Avas rather dangerous ; 
not, indeed, knoAving as yet how far 
the Father had pushed his instructions 
with his young pupil. 

The gazetteers and Avriters, both of 
the French and English side, have 
given accounts sufficient of that 
bloody battle of Blarignies or Malpla- 
quet, Avhich Avas the last and the 
hardest earned of the A’ictories of the 
great Duke of Marlborough. In that 
tremendous combat near upon tAvo 
hundred and fifty thousand men Avere 
engaged, more than thirty thousand 
of Avhom Avere slain or vAmunded (the 
Allies lost twice as many men as they 
killed of the French, Avhom they con- 
(lucred) : and this dreadful slaughter 
very likely took place because a great 
general’s credit Avas shaken at home, 
and he thought to restore it by a vic- 
tory. If smdi Avere the motives Avhich 
induced the Duke of Marlborough to 


venture that prodigious stake, and 
desperately sacrifice thirty thousand 
brave Hats, so that he might figure 
once more in a Gazette, and hold his. 
places and pensions a little longer, the 
event defeated the dreadful and selfish 
design, for the victory Avas purchased 
at a cost Avhich no nation, greedy of 
glory as it may be, Avould Avillingly 
pay for any triumph. The gallantry 
of the French Avas as remarkable as 
the furious bravery of their assailants. 
We took a fcAv score of their flags, 
and a few pieces of their artillery; 
but Ave left tAventy thousand of the 
bravest soldiers of the Avorld round 
about the intrenched lines, from Avhich 
the enemy Avas driv'en. He retreated 
in perfect good order ; the panic-spell 
seemed to be broke, under Avhich the 
French had labored ever since the 
disaster of Hochstedt; and, fighting 
noAV on the threshold of their country, 
they shoAved an heroic ardor of re- 
sistance, such as had nocr met us in 
the course of their aggressiA'c Avar. 
Had the brittle been more successful, 
the conqueror might haA-e got the 
price for Avhich he Avaged it. As it 
Avas (and justly, I think), the party 
adverse to the l)uke in England Avere 
indignant at the lavish extraA-agance 
of slaughter, and demanded more 
eagerly than ever the recall of a chief 
Avhose cupidity and desperation 
might urge him farther still. After 
this bloody fight at Malplaquet, I can 
ansAver for it, that in the Dutch 
quarters and our OAvn, and amongst 
the very regiments and commanders 
Avhose gallantry Avas most conspicu- 
ous upon this frightful day of carnage, 
the general cry Avas, that there Avas 
enough of the Avar. The French 
AATre driven back into their OAvn 
boundary, and all their conquests 
and booty of Flanders disgorged. As 
for the Prince of Savoy, Avith Avhom 
our Commander-in-Chief, for reasons 
of his own, consorted more closely 
than eA’^er, ’t Avas knoAvn that lie Avas 
animated not merely by a political 
hatred, but by personal rage against 
the old French king ; the Imperial 


198 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


Generalissimo never forgot the slight 
put by Lewis upon the Abbe de Sa- 
voie ; and in tlie buniiliation or ruin 
of his most Christian Majesty, the 
Holy Homan Emperor tbund liis ac- 
count. But what were these quarrels 
to us, tlie free citizens of England 
and Holland ? Despot as lie was, the 
Drench monarch was yet the chief of 
European civilization, more venera- 
ble in his age and misfortunes than at 
the period of his most splendid success- 
es ; whilst his opponent was but a semi- 
barbarous tyrant, with a pillaging, 
murderous horde of Croats and Pan- 
dours, composing a half of his army, 
filling our camp with their strange 
figures, bearded like the miscreant 
Turks their neighbors, and carrying 
into Christian -warfare their native 
heathen habits of rapine, lust, and 
murder. Why should the best blood 
in England and France be shed in 
order that the Holy Roman and 
Apostolic master of these ruffians 
should have his revenge over the 
Christian king ? And it was to this 
end we Avere fighting ; for this that 
every village and family in England 
was deploring the de;ith of lielovcd 
sons and fathers. We dared not 
speak to each other, even at table, of 
Malplaquet, so frightful were the gaps 
left in our army by the cannon of 
that bloody action. 'T was heart- 
rending for an officer tvho had a heart 
to look down his line on a parade-day 
afterwards, and miss hundreds of 
faces of comrades — humble or of 
high rank — that had gathered but 
yesterday full of courage and cheer- 
fulness round the torn and blackened 
flags. Where Avere our friends 1 As 
the great Duke revieAved us, riding 
along our lines Avith his fine suite of 
prancing aides-de-camp and generals, 
stopping here and there to thank an 
officer Avith those eager smiles and 
bows of Avhich his Grace Avas ahvays 
lavish, scarce a huzza could be got 
for him, though Cadogan, Avith an 

oath, rode up and cried, — “ D n 

you, why don’t you cheer ? ” But 
the men had no heai:t for that : not 


one of them but Avas thinking, 
“ Where ’s my comrade ? — Avhere ’s 
my brother that fought by me, or my 
dear captain that led me yesterday 1 ” 
’T Avas the most gloomy pageant I 
ever looked on ; and the “ 'l eDcum ” 
sung by our chaplains, the most avo- 
ful and dreary satire. 

Esmond’s General added one more 
to the many marks of honor Avhich he 
had received in the front of a score of 
battles, and got a Avound in the groin, 
Avhich laid him on his back ; and you 
may be sure he consoled himself by 
abusing the Commander-in-Chief, as 
he lay groaning, — “ Corporal John ’s 
as fond of me,” he used to say, “ as 
King David AA^as of General Uriah ; 
and so he ahvays giA'CS me the post of 
danger.” He persisted, to Ins dying 
day, in believing that the Duke in- 
tended he should be beat at Wynen- 
dael, and sent him purposely Avith a 
small force, hoping that he might be 
knocked on the head there. Esmond 
and Frank CastlcAvood both escaped 
Avithout hurt, though the division. 
Avhich our General commanded sufler- 
ed CA^en more than any other, having 
to sustain not only the fury of the 
enemy’s cannonade, Avhich was very 
hot and Avell sciwed, but the furious 
and repeated charges of the famous 
Maison du Roy, Avhich avc bad to re- 
ceive and beat oflf again and again, 
Avith volleys of shot and hedges of 
iron, and our four lines of musketeers 
and pikemen. They said the King 
of England charged us no less than 
tAveRe times that day, along Avith the 
French Household. Esmond’s late 
regiment. General Webb’s OAvn Fusi- 
leers, serA'cd in the division Avhicli 
their colonel commanded. The Gen- 
eral Avas thrice in the centre of the 
square of the Fusilcers, calling the 
fire at the French charges, and, after 
the action, his Grace the Duke of 
Berwick sent his compliments to his 
old regiment and their Colonel for 
their behavior on the field. 

We drank my Lord CastleAv'ood’s 
health and majority, the 25th of 
September, the army being then be- 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


199 


fore Mons : and here Colonel Esmond 
was not so fortunate as he had been 
in actions much more dangerous, and 
was hit by a spent ball just above the 
place where his former Avound was, 
which caused the old Avouud to open 
ag.iin, fever, spitting of blood, and 
other ugly symptoms, to ensue ; and, 
in a word, brought him near to death’s 
door. The kind lad, his kinsman, 
attended his elder comrade with a 
very praiseworthy affectionateness 
and care until he was pronounced out 
of danger by the doctors, when Frank 
went off, passed the Avinter at Bru- 
xelles, and besieged, no doubt, some 
other fortress there. Very few lads 
Avould have giA’^en up their pleasures 
so long and so gayly as Frank did ; 
his cheerful prattle soothed many long 
days of Esmond’s pain and languor. 
Frank AAms supposed to be still at 
his kinsman’s bedside for a month after 
he had left it, for letters came from his 
mother at home full of thanks to the 
younger gentleman for his care of his 
elder brother (so it pleased Esmond’s 
mistress noAV affectionately to style 
him) ; nor Avas Mr. Esmond in a 
hurry to undeceive her, when the good 
young felloAV Avas gone for his Christ- 
mas holiday. It Avas as pleasant to 
Esmond on his couch to watch the 
young man’s pleasure at the idea of 
being free, as to note his simple efforts 
to disguise his satisfaction on going 
aAvay. There are days Avhen a flask 
of champagne at a cabaret, and a red- 
cheeked partner to share it, are too 
strong temptations for any young fel- 
loAV of spirit. I am not going to play 
the moralist, and cry “Fie.” For 
ages past, I knoAV how old men preach, 
and Avhat young men practise; and 
that patriarchs have had their Aveak 
moments too, long since Father Noah 
toppled over after discovering the 
vine. Frank Avent off, then, to his 
pleasures at Bruxelles, in Avhich capi- 
tal many young fellows of our army 
declared they found infinitely greater 
diversion even than in London ; and 
Mr. Henry Esmond remained in his 
sick-room, Avhere he writ a fine com- 


edy, that his mistress pronounced to be 
sublime, and that Avas acted no less 
than three siiccessive nights in Lon- 
don in the next year. 

Here, as he lay nursing himself, 
ubiquitous Mr. Holt reappeared, and 
stojtped a Avhole month at Mons, 
Avhere he not only Avon over Colonel 
Esmond to the King’s side in politics 
(that side being ahvays held by the 
Esmond family) ; but Avhere he en- 
deaAmred to reopen the controversial 
question betAveen the churches once 
more, and to recall Esmond to that 
religion in Avhich, in his infancy, he 
had been baptized. Holt Avas a casuist, 
both dexterous and learned, and pre- 
sented the case betAveen the English 
church and his OAvn in such a Avay 
that those Avho granted his premises 
ought certainly to alloAv his conclu- 
sions. He touched on Esmond’s del- 
icate state of health, chance of disso- 
lution, and so forth ; and enlarged 
upon the immense benefits that the 
sick man Avas likely to forego, — ben- 
efits Avhich the Church of England did 
not deny to those of the Roman com- 
munion, as how should she, being de- 
rived from that church, and only an 
offshoot from it? But Mr. Esmond 
said that his church Avas the church of 
his country, and to that he chose to 
remain faithful ; other people Avere 
Avelcome to Avorship and to subscribe 
any other set of articles, Avhether at 
Rome or at Augsburg. But if the 
good Father meant that Esmond 
should join the Roman communion 
for fear of consequences, and that all 
England ran the risk of being damned 
for heresy, Esmond, for one, was per- 
fectly Avilling to take his chance of the 
penalty along Avith the countless mil- 
lions of his felloAV-countrymcn, Avho 
Avere bred in the same faith, and along 
Avith some of the noblest, the truest, 
the purest, the Avisest, the most pious 
and learned men and Avomcn in the 
Avorld. 

As for the political question, in that 
Mr. Esmond could agree Avith the 
Father much more readily, and had 
come to the same conclusion, though, 


200 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


perhaps, by a different way. The 
rijrht divine, about which Dr. Saclie- 
verel and the llif^h -Church party in 
Euf^laud were just now inakinf^ a 
bother, they were welcome to hold as 
they chose. If Kichard Cromwell, 
an(l his father before him, had been 
crowned and anointed (and bishops 
enough would have been found to do 
it), it seemed to Mr. Esmond that 
they would have had the right divine 
just as much as any Plantagenet, or 
Tudor, or Stuart. But the desire of 
the country being unquestionably for 
an hereditary monarchy, Esmond 
thought an English king out of St. 
Germains was better and fitter than a 
German prince from Herrenhausen, 
and that if he failed to satisfy the na- 
tion, some other Englishman might 
be found to take his place ; and so, 
though with no frantic enthusiasm, or 
worship of that monstrous pedigree 
which the Tories chose to consider 
divine, he was ready to say, “ God 
save King James ! ” when Queen 
Anne went the way of 'kings and 
commoners. 

“ 1 fear. Colonel, you are no better 
than a republican at heart,” says the 
priest Avith a sigh. 

“ I am an Englishman,” says Har- 
ry, “ and take my country as I find 
her. The Avill of the nation being for 
church and king, lam for church and 
king too ; but English church and 
English king ; and that is why Your 
church is n’t mine, though your king 
is.” 

Though they lost the day at Mal- 
plaquet, it Avas the French Avho Avere 
dated by that action, Avhilst the con- 
qtierors Avere dispirited by it ; and the 
enemy gathered together a larger 
army than ever, and made prodigious 
efforts for the next campaign. Mar- 
shal Bei’Avick Avas Avith the French 
this year ; and avc hear<l that Mares- 
chal Villars aa'us still suffering of his 
Avound, Avas eager to bring our Duke 
to aetion, and voAved he Avould fight 
us in his coaeh. Young CastlcAvood 
came flying back from Bruxelles, as 
soon as he heard that fighting Avas to 


begin ; and the arrival of the Cheva- 
lier de St. George Avas announced 
about May. “ It ’s the King’s third 
campaign, and it ’s mine,” Frank 
liked saying. He Avas come back a 
greater Jacobite than ever, and Es- 
mond suspected that some fair con- 
spirators at Bruxelles had been in- 
flaming the young man’s ardor. In- 
deed, he oAvned that he had a message 
from the Queen, Beatrix’s godmother, 
Avho had given her name to Frank’s 
sister the year before he and his soa^- 
creign Avere born. 

lIoAveA^er desirous Marshal Yillars 
might be to fight, my Lord Duke did 
not seem disjmsed to indulge him this 
campaign. Last year his Grace had 
been all for the Whigs and Hanoveri- 
ans; but finding, on going to Eng- 
land, his country cold toAvards him- 
self, and the people in a ferment of 
High Church loyaltAg theDuke comes 
back to his army cooled tOAvards the 
IlanoA'crians, cautious Avith the Impe- 
rialists, and particularly civil and polite 
tOAvards the Chevalier de St. George. 
’T is certain that messengers and letters 
Avere continually passing bctAA'cen his 
Grace and his brave nepheAv the Duke 
of BerAvick, in the opposite camp. 
No man’s caresses were more oppor- 
tune than his Grace’s, and nc man 
CA'cr uttered expressions of regard 
and affection more generously. He 
professed to IMonsieur de Torcy, so 
Mr. St. John told the Avritcr, quite an 
eagerness to be cut in pieces for the 
exiled Queen and her family ; nay, 
more, I believe, this year he parted 
Avith a portion of the most precious 
)art of himself — his money — Avhich 
le sent OA’cr to the royal exiles. Mr. 
Tunstal, Avho Avas in the Prince’s ser- 
vice, Avas twice or thrice in and out of 
our camp ; the French, in theirs of 
Arlieu and about Arras. A little 
riA^'r, the Canihe I think ’t Avas 
called (but this is Avrit aAvay from 
books and Europe ; and the only map 
the Avriter hath of these scenes of his 
youth bears no mark of this little 
stream), divided our pickets from the 
enemy’s. Our sentries talked across 





4 



The Chevalier de St Geoi 







THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


201 


the stream, when they could make 
themselves understood to each other, 
and when they could not, grinned, and 
handed each other their braiuiy-tlasks 
or tlieir pouches of tobacco. And one 
fine day of June, riding thither with 
the officer who visited the outposts, 
( Colonel Esmond was taking an air- 
ing on horseback, being too weak 
for military duty), they came to this 
river where a number of English and 
Scots were assembled, talking to the 
good-natured enemy on the other 
side. 

Esmond was especially amused 
with the talk of one long fellow, Avith 
a great curling red mustache, and 
blue eyes, that was half a dozen 
inches taller than his swarthy little 
comrades on the French side of 
the stream, and being asked by the 
Colonel, saluted him, and said thaflie 
belonged to the Royal Cravats. 

From his Avay of saying “ Royal 
Cravat,” Esmond at once knew that 
the fellow’s tongue had first wagged 
on the banks of the Liffey, and not 
the Loire ; and the poor soldier — a 
deserter probably — did not like to 
venture very deep into French con- 
versation, lest his unlucky brogue 
should peep out. lie chose to restrict 
himself to such feAV expressions in the 
French language as he thought ho 
had mastered easily ; and his attempt 
at disguise was infinitely amusing. 
]\Ir. Esmond whistled Lillibullcro, at 
which Teague’s eyes began to twinkle, 
and then flung him a dollar, when 
the poor boy broke out with a “ (lod 
bless — that is, Dieu benisse Amtre 
honor,” that Avould infallibly have 
sent him to the provost-marshal had 
he been on our side of the river. 

Whilst this pnrlcy was going on, 
three olfieers on horseback, on the 
French side, appeared at some little 
distance and stopped as if eying us, 
Avhen one of them left the other tAvo, 
and rode close up to us Avho Avere by 
the stream. “ Look, look ! ” says the 
Royal CraA'at, Aviih great agitation, 
“ pas lui, that ’s he ; not him, I’autre,” 
and pointed to the distant officer on a 
9 * 


chestnut horse, Avith a cuirass shin- 
ing in tlie sun, and over it a broad 
blue ribbon. 

“ Please to take Mr. Hamilton’s 
services to my Lord Marlborough, — . 
my Lord Duke,” says the gentleman 
in English ; and, looking to see that 
the party AA'cre not hostilely disposed, 
he added, Avith a smile, “ There ’s a 
friend of yours, gentlemen, yonder ; 
he bids me to say that he saw some 
of your faces on the 11th of Septem- 
ber last year.” 

As the gentleman spoke, the other 
tAvo officers rode up, and came (piite 
close. We kncAv at once Avho it was. 
It Avas the King, then two-and-tAventy 
years old, tall and slim, Avith deep 
brown eyes, that looked melancholy 
though bis lips Avore a smile. We 
took otf our hats and saluted him. 
No man, sure, could see for the first 
time, Avithout emotion, the youthful 
inheritor of so much fame and misfor- 
tune. It seemed to Mr. . Esmond that 
the Prince was not unlike yonng (his- 
tlewood, Avhose ageandfigure he resem- 
bled. The Chevalier de St. George 
acknoAvledged the salute, and looked 
at us liurd. Even the idlers on our 
side of tlie river set up a hurrah. As 
for the Royal Cravat, he ran to the 
Prince’s stirrup, knelt doAvn and 
kissed his boot, and baAvled and looked 
a hundred ejaculatiotis and blessings. 
The Prince bade the aide-de-camp 
giA'^e him apiece of money ; and Avhen 
the party saluting us had ridden 
aAvay, Cravat spat upon the piece of 
gold by Avay of benediction, and 
SAvaggered aAvay, pouching his coin 
and tAvirling his honest carroty 
mustache. 

The officer in Avhose company Es- 
mond Avas, the same little captain of 
IlandA'side’s regiment, Mr. Sterne, 
who had proposed tlic garden at 
Lille, Avhen my Lord Mohun and Es- 
mond had their affair, Ava- an Irish- 
man too, and as brave a little sonl as 
ever Avore a sword. “Redad,” says 
Roger Sterne, “ that long felloAV 
spoke French so beautiful that I 
should n’t have known he Avas n’t a 


202 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


foreigner, till he broke out with his 
hulla-balloin<r, and only an Irish calf 
can bellow like that.” And Roger 
made another remark in his wild Avay, 
in whieh there was sense as Aveli as 
absurdity, — “ If that young gentle- 
man,” says he, “w'ould but ride over 
to our camp instead of Villars’s, toss 
up his hat and say, ‘ Here am I, the 
King, who T1 follow me 1 ’ by the 
Lord, Esmond, the whole army 
would rise and carry him home 
again, and beat Villars, and take 
Paris by the >vay.” 

The neAvs of the Prince’s visit was 
all through the camp quickly, and 
scores of ours Avent doAvn in hopes to 
see liim. Major Hamilton, Avhom 
AA^e had talked Avith, sent back by a 
trumpet several silver pieces for offi- 
cers Avith us. Mr. Esmond received 
one of these; and that medal, and a 
reeompense not uncommon amongst 
princes, Avere the only rewards he 
ever had from a Royal person, Avhom 
he endeavored not very long after to 
serve. 

Esmond quitted the army almost 
immediately after this, folloAving his 
general home ; and, indeed, being 
advised to traA^el in the fine AA’eatlier 
and attempt to take no further part 
in the campaign. But he heard from 
the army, that of the many Avlio 
croAvded to see the Chevalier de St. 
George, Frank CastleAvood had made 
himself most conspicuous : my Lord 
Viscount riding across the little 
stream bareheaded to Avhere the 
Prinee Avas, and dismounting and 
kneeling before him to do him hom- 
age. Some said that the Prince had 
actually knighted him, but my Lord 
denied that statement, though he 
aeknoAA’ledged the rest of the story, 
and said : — ‘‘ From having been out 
of favor Avith ("orporal John,” as he 
called the Duke, “ before his Grace 
Avarned him not to commit those 
follies, and smiled on him cordially 
ever after.” 

“ And he AA'as so kind to me,” 
Frank Avrit, “ that I thought I Avould 
put in a good word for Master Harry, 


but Avhen I mentioned your name he 
looked as black as thunder, and said 
he had never heard of you.” 

— ♦ 

CHAPTER 11. 

I GO HOME, AND HARP ON THE OLD 

STRING. 

After quitting Mons and the 
army, and as he AA^as Avaiting for a 
packet at Ostend, Esmond had a 
letter from his young kinsman Castle- 
AA’ood at Bruxelles, conA^eying intelli- 
gence Avhereof Frank besought him 
to be the bearer to London, and 
Avhich caused Colonel Esmond no 
small anxiety. 

The young scapegrace, being one- 
and-twenty years old, and being anx- 
ious to soAv his “ Avild otes,” as he 
Avrote, had married Mademoiselle de 
Wertheim, daughter of Count de 
Wertheim, Chamberlain to the Em- 
peror, and having a post in the House- 
hold of the GoAarnor of the Kcther- 
lands. “P. S.,” the young gentle- 
man Avrote : “Clotilda is older than 
me, which perhaps may be objected to 
her: but I am so old a raik that the 
age makes no difference, and I am 
determined to reform. We Avere mar- 
ried at St. Gudule, by Father Holt. 
She is lieart and soul lor the e;ood 
cause. And here the cry is Vif-Ie-lloi/, 
Avhich my mother Avill johi in, and 
'Trix too. Break this neAvs to ’em 
^gently : and tell Mr. Finch, my agent, 
to press the people for their rents, and 
send me the ryno anyhow. Clotilda 
sings, and plays on the Spinet beauti- 
fully. She is a fair beauty. And if 
it ’s a son, yoti shall stand Godfather. 
I ’m going to leaA^e the army, having 
had enuf of soldei'ing ; and my Lor(l 
Duke recommends me. I shall pass 
the Avinter here : and stop at least 
until Clo’s lying-in. I call her old 
Clo, but nobody else shall. She is 
the cleA'erest Avoman in all Hruxelles : 
understanding painting, mnsic, poe- 
try, and perfeet at cookeiy eind puddens. 
I horded AA'ith the Count, that ’s hoAV 


THE HISTORY OF 

I came to know her. There are four 
Counts her brothers. One an Abbey, 
— three with the Prince’s army. 
They have a lawsuit for an inimence 
forlune : but are now in a pore wap. 
Break this to mother, who ’ll take 
anything from you. And write, and 
bid Finch write amediately. Hostel 
de I’Aiglc Noire, Bruxelles, Flan- 
ders.” 

So Frank had married a Roman 
Catholic lady, and an heir was ex- 
pected, and Mr. Esmond Avas to carry 
this intelligence to his mistress at 
London. ’T Avas a difficult embassy ; 
and the Colonel felt not a little tre- 
mor as he neared the capital. 

He reached his inn late, and sent a 
messenger to Kensington to announce 
his arrival and visit the next morning. 
The messenger brought back ncAvs 
that the Court Avas at Windsor, and 
the hiir Beatrix absent and engaged 
in her duties there. Only Esmond’s 
mistress remained in her house at 
Kensington. She appeared in court 
but once in the year; Beatrix Avas 
quite the mistress and ruler of the 
little mansion, inviting the company 
thither, and engaging in every con- 
ceivable frolic of tOAvn pleasure. 
Whilst her mother, acting as the 
young lady’s protectress and elder 
sister, pursued her own path, Avhich 
Avas quite modest and secluded. 

As soon as ever Esmond Avas 
dressed ( and he had been aAvake long 
before the town), he took a coach for 
Kensington, and reached it so early 
that he met his dear mistress coming 
home from morning prayers. She 
carried her prayer-book, never alloAv- 
ing a footman to bear it, as every- 
body else did : and it Avas by this 
simple sign Esmond kncAv wliat her 
occupation had been. He called to 
the coachman to stop, and jam])ed 
out as she looked tOAvards him. She 
Avore her hood as usual, and she 
turned quite pale Avdien she saAV him. 
To feel that kind little hand near to 
his heart seemed to give him strength. 
Thev Avcrc soon at the door of her 
Ladyship’s house — and Avithin it. 


HENRY ESMOND. 203 

With a sAvect sad smile she took 
his hand and kissed it. 

“ How ill you have been : hoAv 
Aveak you look, my dear Henry,” she 
said. 

’Tis certain the Colonel did look 
like a ghost, except that ghosts do 
not look A'ery happy, ’t is said. Es- 
mond always felt so on returning to 
her after absence, indeed whenever he 
looked in her sweet kind face. 

“ I am come back to be nursed by 
my family,” says he. ‘‘ If Frank had 
not taken care of me after my Avound, 
very likely I should have gone alto- 
gether.” 

“ Poor Frank, good Frank ! ” says 
his mother. “ You ’ll ahvays be kind 
to him, my Lord,” she Avent on. 
“ The poor child never kncAv he Avas 
doing you a v\Tong.” 

“ My Lord ! ” cries out Colonel 
Esmond. “ What do you mean, dear 
lady ? ” 

“ I am no lady,” says she ; “ I am 
Rachel Esmond, Francis Esmond’s 
Avidow, my Lord. I cannot bear that 
title., AVould Ave neA'er had taketi it 
from him who has it noAV. But avc 
did all in our poAver, Henry : AA'e did 
all in our power ; and my Lord and 
I — that is — ” 

“Who told yon this tale, dearest 
lady ” asked the Colonel. 

“ HaA'c you not had the letter I Avrit 
you 1 I Avrit to you at Mons directly 
i heard it,” says Lady Esmond. 

“ And from AAffiom ” again asked 
Colonel Esmond, — and his mistress 
then told him that on her death-bed 
the DoAvager Countess, sending for 
her, had presented her Avith this dis- 
mal secret as a legacy. “ ’T Avas A^ery 
malicious of the Dowager,” Lady Es- 
mond said, “ to haA^e had it so long, 
and to have kept the truth from me.” 
“ Cousin Rachel,” she said, — and 
Esmond’s mistress could not forbear 
smiling as she told the story, — 
“ Cousin Rachel,” cries the Dowager, 
“I have sent for you, as the doctors 
say I may go off any day in this dys- 
entery ; and to ease my conscience of 
a great load that has been on it. You 


204 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


always have been a poor creature and 
unfit for fjrcat lionpr, and what I have 
to say won’t, therefore, affect you so 
much. You must know, Cousin Ra- 
ehel, that I have left my house, plate, 
and furniture, three thousand pounds 
in money, and my diamonds tliat my 
late revered Saint and Sovereign, 


King James, presented me with, to 
my Lord Viscount Castlewood.” 

“ To my Frank ? ” says Lady Cas- 
tlewood : “ I was in hopes — ” 

“ To Viscount Castlewood, my 
dear; Viscount Castlewood and Bar- 
on Esmond of Shandon in the King- 
dom of Ireland, Earl and Marquis of 
Esmond under patent of his Majesty 
King James the Second, conferred 
upon my husband the late Marquis, 
— for I am Marchioness of Esmond 
before God and man.” 

“ And have you left poor Harry 
nothing, dear Marchioness'?” asks 
Lady Castlewood (she hatli told me 
the story completely since with her 
quiet arch Avay ; the most charming 
any Avoman ever had ; and I set doAvn 
tlie narrative here at length, so as to 
haA^c done Avith it). “And have you 
left poor Harry nothing?” asks my 
dear lady ; “ for you knoAv, Henry,” 
she says Avith her sweet smile, “ I used 
ahvays to pity Esau, — and I think I 
am on his side, — though papa tried 
very hard to convince me the other 
Avay.” 

“ Poor Harry ! ” says the old lady. 
“ So you Avant something left to ])Oor 
Harry: he — he! (roach me tiie 
drops, cousin). Well, then, my dear, 
since you Avant poor Ilarry to IniA'e a 
fortune, you must understand that 
CA'cr since the year 1691, a AA'cek after 
the battle of the Boyne, Avhere the 
I^rince of Orange defeated his royal 
sovereign and father, for Avltich crime 
he is noAv suffering in flames (ugh! 
ugh !) Henry Esmond liMth been Mar- 
quis of Esmond and Earl of Castlc- 


AA-ood in the United Kingdom, and 
Baron and Viscount CastlcAvood of 
Shandon in Ireland, and a Baronet, 
— and his eldest son Avill be, l)y cour- 
tesy, styled Earl of CastleAvood” — he ! 


I he ! What do you think of that, my 
dear ? ” 

“ Gracious mercy ! hoAv long haA’^e 
you knoAvn this ? ” cries the other la- 
dy (thinking perhaps that the old 
Marchioness Avas Avandcring in her 
Avits). 

“ My husband, before he Avas con- 
verted, Avas a Avicked Avretch,” the sick 
sinner continued. “ When he Avas in 
the Loav Countries he seduced a AveaA'- 
er’s daughter ; and added to hisAvick- 
edness by marrying her. And tlien 
he came to this country and married 
me — a poor girl — a poor innocent 
young thing — I say,” — “though 
she Avas past forty, you knoAV, Harry, 
Avhen she married ; and as for being 
innocent ” — “ AVell,” she Avent on, “ I 
kneAv nothing of my Lord’s Avicked- 
ness for three years after our marriage, 
and after the "burial of our poor little 
boy I liad it done over again, my 
dear; I had myself married by Fa- 
ther Holt in Casth Avcod chapel, as 
soon as CA’er I heard the creature Avas 
dead, — and having a great illness 
then, arising from another sad disap- 
pointment I had, the priest came and 
lold me that my' Lord had a son before 
our marriage, and that the child Avas 
at nurse in England ; and I consented 
to let the brat be brought home, and 
a (piecr little melancholy' chikl it Avas 
Avhen it came. 

“ Our inicntion Avas to make a 
priest of him ; and he Avas breel for 
this, until you perverted him from it, 
you Avickeel Avoman. Aud I had again 
hopes of giving an heir to my I.ord, 
Avhen ho Avas called aAAay^ upon the 
King’s business, and died fighting 
gloriously at the Boyne Avater. 

“Should I be disappointed — I 
OAved your husband no love, my' dear, 
for he had jilted mo in the most scan- 
dalous Avay ; and I thought there 
Avould be time to declare the little 
AveaA'er’s son for the true heir. But 
I Avas carried off to ])rison, Avherc 
your husband Avas so kind to me — 
ui’iring all his friends to obtain my-- 
release, and using all his credit in my 
favor — that 1 relented toAvards him. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 205 


especially as my director counselled 
me to be silent ; and that it was tbr 
the <^oo;l of tlie King’s service that 
the title of our family sliould continue 
with your husband tlie late viscount, 
whereby his fidelity would be always 
secured to the King. And a proof 
of this is, that a year before your hus- 
band’s death, when he thought of tak- 
ing a place under the Prince of Or- 
ange, Mr. Holt went to him, and told 
him what the state of the matter was, 
and obliged him to raise a large sum 
for his Majesty; and engaged him in 
the true cause so heartily, that we 
were sure of his support on any day 
when it should be considered advisable 
to attack the usurper. Then his 
sudden death came ; and there was a 
thought of declaring the truth. But 
Twas determined to be best for the 
King’s service to let the title still go 
with the younger branch ; and there ’s 
no sacrilice a Castlewood would n’t 
make for that cause, my dear. 

“ As for Colonel Esmond, he knew 
the truth already.” (“ And then, 
Harry,” my mistress said, “ she told 
me of what had happened at my 
dear husband’s death-bed.”) “ He 
doth not intend to take the title, 
though it belongs to him. But it 
ea'^es my conscience that you should 
know the truth, my dear. And your 
son is lawfully Viscount Castlewood 
so long as his cousin doth not claim 
the rank.” 

This was the substance of the Dow- 
ager’s revelation. Dean Atterbury 
had knowledge of it. Lady Castle- 
wood said, and Esmond very well 
knows how ; that divine being the 
clergyman for whom the late lord 
had sent on his death-bed : and when 
Lady Castlewood Avould instantly 
have written to her son, and con- 
veyed the truth to him, the Dean’s 
advice was that a letter should be 
writ to Colonel Esmond rath'*r ; that 
the matter should be submitted to his 
decision, by which alone the rest of 
the family were bound to abide. 

“ And can my dearest lady doubt 
what that will be ? ” says the Colonel. 


“ Tt rests with you, Plarry, as the 
head of our house.” 

“ It was settled twelve years since, 
by my dear lord’s bedside,” says 
Colonel Esmond. “ The children 
must know nothing of this. Prank 
and his heirs after him must bear our 
name. ’T is his rightfully ; I have 
not even a proof of that marriage of 
my father and mother, though my 
poor lord, on his death-bed, told me 
that Father Holt had brought such a 
proof to Castlewood. I would not 
seek it when I was abroad. I M’-ent 
and looked at my poor mother’s 
grave in her convent. What matter 
to her now ? No court of law on 
earth, upon my mere word, would 
deprive my Lord Viscount and set 
me up. I am the head of the house, 
dear lady ; but Frank is Viscount 
of Castlewood still. And rather than 
disturb him, I would turn monk, or 
disappear in America.” 

As he spoke so to his dearest mis- 
tress, for whom he would have been 
willing to give up his life, or to make 
any sacrilice any day, the fond crea- 
ture flung herself down on her knees 
before him, and kissed both his hands 
in an outbreak of passionate love and 
gratitude, such as could not but melt 
his heart, and make him feel very 
proud and thankful that God had 
given him the power to show his love 
for her, and to prove it by some little 
sacrifice on his own part. To be able 
to bestow benefits or ha])piness on 
those one loves is sure the greatest 
blessing conferred upon a man, — and 
what wealth or name, or gratification 
of ambition or vanity, could compare 
with the pleasure Esmond now had 
of being able to confer some kind- 
ness upon his best and dearest 
friends ? ” 

“ Dearest saint,” says he, — “ pur- 
est soul, that has had so much to suf- 
fer, that has blest the poor lonely or- 
phan with such a treasure of love. 
’T is for me to kneel, not for you ; 
’t is for me to l)e thankful that i can 
make you happy. Hath my life any 
other aim ? Blessed be God that I 


20G 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


can serve you ! AVliat pleasure, tliink 
you, coukl all tlic world give me com- 
pared to that ” 

“Don’t raise me,” she said, in a 
wild way to Esmond, who would 
have lilted her. “ Let me kneel — 
let me kneel, and — and — worship 
you.” 

Before such a partial judge as Es- 
mond’s dear mistress owned hersedf 
to be, any cause which he might 
plead was sure to he given in his fa- 
vor; and accordingly he found little 
diiliculty in reconciling her to the 
news whereof he was bearer, of her 
son’s marriage to a foreign lad}'. Pa- 
pist though she was. Lady Castle- 
-vvood never could be brought to think 
so ill of that religion as other people 
in England thought of it : she held 
that ours was undoubtedly a branch 
of the Catholic Church, but that the 
Roman was one of the main stems on 
which, no doubt, many errors had 
been grafted (she was, for a woman, 
extraordinarily well versed in this 
controversy, having acted, as a girl, 
as secretary to her father, the late 
dean, and written many of his ser- 
mons, under his dictation) ; and if 
Prank had chosen to marry a lady of 
the church of south Europe, as she 
Avould call the Roman communion, 
'there was no need Avhy she should not 
welcome her as a daughter-in-law : 
and, accordingly, she wrote to her 
new daughter a very pretty, touching 
letter (as Esmond thouglit, who had 
cognizance of it before it went), in 
which the only hint of reproof was a 
gentle remonstrance that her son had 
not written to herself to ask a fond 
mother’s blessing for that step which 
he was about taking. “ Castlewood 
knew very well,” so she wrote to her 
son, “ that she never denied him any- 
thing in her power to give, much 
less would she think of opposing a 
marriage that was to make his happi- 
ness, as she trusted, and keep him 
out of wild courses, which had 
alarmed her a good deal ” : and she 
besought him to come quickly to 


England, to settle down in his family 
house of Castlewood (“ It is his fam- 
ily house,” says she to Colonel Es- 
mond, “ though only his own house 
by your forbearance ”), and to receive 
the accompt of her stewardship dur- 
ing his ten years’ minority. By care 
and frugality, she had got the estate 
into a better condition than ever it 
had been since the Parliamentary 
wars ; and my Lord was now master 
of a pretty, small income, not encum- 
bered of debts, as it had been during 
his father’s ruinous time. “But in 
saving my son’s fortune,” says she, 
“ I fear I have lost a great part of my 
hold on him.” And, indeed, this was 
the case ; her Ladyship’s daugliter 
complaining that their mother did all 
for Prank and nothing for her; and 
Prank himself being dissatisfied at 
the narrow, simple way of his moth- 
er’s living at Walcote, where he had 
been brought up more like a poor 
parson’s son than a young nobleman 
that was to make a figure in the 
world. ’T was this mistake in his 
early training, very likely, that set 
him so eager upon pleasure Avhen he 
had it in his power ; nor is he the 
first lad that has been spoiled by the 
over-careful fondness of women. No 
training is so useful for children, 
great or small, as the company of 
their betters in rank or natural parts ; 
in whose society they lose the over- 
weening sense of their own impor- 
tance, which stay-at-home people very 
commonly learn. 

But, as a prodigal that ’s sending 
in a schedule of his debts to his 
friends, never puts all down, and, you 
may be sure, the rogue keeps back 
some immense swingeing bill, that 
he does n’t dare to own ; so the poor 
Prank had a very heavy piece of news 
to break to his mother, and which he 
had n’t the courage to introduce into 
his first confession. Some misgiA'ings 
Esmond might have, upon receiving 
Frank’s letter, and ’knowing into 
what hands the boy had fallen ; but 
Avhatever these misgivings were, he 
kept them to himself, not caring to 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


207 


trouble bis mistress with any fears 
that might be groundless. 

However, the next mail which came 
from Bruxelles, after Frank had 
received liis mother’s letters there, 
brought back a joint composition 
-from himself and his wife, who could 
spell no better than her young scape- 
grace of a husband, full of expressions 
of thanks, love, and duty to the 
Dowager Viscountess, as my poor 
lady now was styled ; and along 
with this letter (which was read in a 
fiiinily council, namely, the Viscount- 
ess, Mistress Beatrix, and the writer 
of this memoir, and which was pro- 
nounced to be vulgar by the maid of 
honor, and felt to be so by the other 
two), there came a private letter for 
Colonel Esmond from poor Frank, 
with another dismal commission for 
the Colonel to execute, at liis best 
opportunity ; and fliis unis to 
announce that Frank had seen fit, 
“by the exhortation of Mr. IIo!t, tlie 
influence of his Clotildi, and the 
blessing of Heaven and the saints,” 
says my Lord, demurely, “ to change 
his religion, and he received into the 
bosom of that church of which his 
sovereign, many of his family, and 
the greater part of the civilized 
world, were members.” And his 
Lordship added a postscript, of which 
Esmond knew the inspiring genius 
very well, for it had the genuine 
twang of the Seminary, and was 
quite unlike poor Frank’s ordinary 
style of writing and thinking ; in 
which he reminded Colonel Esmond 
that he too was, by birth, of that 
church; and that his mother and 
sister should have his , Lordship’s 
prayers to the saints (an inestimable 
benefit, truly 1) for their conversion. 

If Esmond had wanted to keep 
this secret, he could not ; for a day 
or two after receiving this letter, a 
notice from Bruxelles appeared in 
the Post-Boy and other prints, an- 
nouncing that “ a young Irish lord, 
the Viscount C-stlew — d, just come 
to his majority, and who had served 
thfe last campaigns with great credit, 


as aide-de-camp to his Grace the 
Duke of Marlborough, had declared 
for the Popish religion at Bruxelles, 
and had walked in a procession bare- 
foot, with a wax-taper in his hand.” 
The notorious Mr. Holt, who had 
been employed as a Jacobite agent 
during the last reign, and many 
times pardoned by King William, had 
been, the Post-Boy said, the agent of 
this conversion. 

The Lady Castlewood was as much 
cast down by this news as Miss 
Beatrix was indignant at it. “ So,” 
says she, “ Castlewood is no longer 
a home for us, mother. Frank’s 
foreign wife will bring her confessor, 
and there will be frogs for dinner; 
and all Tusher’s and my grand- 
father’s sermons are flung away upon 
my brother. 1 used to tell you that 
you killed him with the catechism, 
and that he would turn wicked as 
soon as he broke from his mammy’s 
leading-strings. O mother, you 
would not believe that the young 
scapegrace was playing you tricks, 
and that sneak of a Tushcr was not 
a fit guide for him. O those par- 
sons, I hate ’em all ! ” says Mistress 
Beatrix, clapping her hands together; 
“yes, whether they wear cassocks 
and buckles, or beards and bare feet 
There ’s a horrid Irish wretch who 
never misses a Sunday at Court, and 
who pays me compliments there, the 
horrible man ; and if you want to 
know what parsons are, you should 
see his behavior, and hear him talk 
of his own cloth. They ’re all the 
same, ivhether they ’re bishops, or 
bonzes, or Indian fakirs. They try 
to domineer, and they frighten us 
with kingdom come ; and they wear 
a sanctified air m public, and expect 
us to go down on our knees and ask 
their blessing ; and they intrigue, 
and they grasp, and they backbite, 
and they slander worse that the worst 
courtier or the wickedest old woman, 

I heard this Mr. Swift sneering at my 
Lord Duke of Marlborough’s courage 
the other day. He! that Teague 
from Dublin ! because his Grace is 


208 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


not in favor, dares to say this of 
him; and he says this that it may 
get to lier Majesty’s ear, and to coax 
and wheedle Mrs. Masham. They 
say the Elector of Hanover has a 
dozen of mistresses in his court at 
Herrenhansen, and if he comes to be 
king over us, I wager that the bishops 
and Mr. Swift, that wants to be one, 
will coax and wheedle them. O, 
those priests and their grave airs ! 
I ’m sick of their square toes and their 
rustling cassocks. I should like to 
go to a country where there was not 
one, or turn Quaker, and get rid of 
^cm ; and I would, only the dress is 
not becoming, and I ’ve much too 
pretty a figure to hide it. Have n’t 
I, cousin ” and here she glanced at 
her person and tlie looking-glass, 
which told her rightly that a more 
beautiful shape and face never were 
seen. 

“ I made that onslaught on the 
priests,” says Miss Beatrix, after- 
w'ards, “in order to divert my poor 
dear mother’s anguish about Frank. 
Frank is as vain as a girl, cousin. 
Talk of us girls being vain, what are 
we to you ? It was easy to see that 
the first woman who chose would 
make a fool of him, or the first robe, 
— I count a ])ricst and a woman all 
the same. "VYc arc always caballing ; 
we arc not answerable for the fibs we 
tell ; we are always cajoling and coax- 
ing, or threatening; and we are al- 
w'ays making mischief. Colonel Es- 
mond, — mark my word for that, who 
know the world, sir, and have to 
make my way in it. I see as w^ell as 
possible how Frank’s marriage hath 
been managed. The Count, our 
papa-in-law, is always away at the 
coffee-bousc. The Countess, our 
mother, is always in the kitchen look- 
ing after the dinner. The Countess, 
our sister, is at the spinet. When 
my Lord comes to say he is going on 
the campaign, the lovely Clotilda 
bursts into tears, and faints — so; he 
catches her in his arms — no, sir, 
keep your distance, cousin, if you 
please — she cries on his shoulder, 


and he says, ‘ O my divine, my adjr' 
cd, my beloved Clotilda, arc you sorrv 
to part with me 1 ’ MJ my Francisco,’ 
says she, ‘ O my Lord ! ’ and at this 
very instant mamma and a couple of 
young brothers, with mustaches and 
long raijiers, come in from the kitch- 
en, wdiere they have been eating bread 
and onions. Mark my word, you 
will have all this woman’s rela- 
tions at Castlewood three months 
after she has arrived there. The old 
count and countess, and the young 
counts and all the little countesses 
her sisters. Counts ! every one of 
these wretches says he is a eoimt. 
Guiscard, that stabbed Mr. Harve^', 
said he was a count ; and I believe he 
was a barber. All Frenchmen are 
barbers — F'iddledee! don’t contra- 
dict me — or else dancing-masters, or 
else priests.” And so she rattled 
on. 

“ Who was it taught yon to dance. 
Cousin Beatrix'?” says the Colonel. 

She laughed out the air of a 
minuet, and swept a low courtesy, 
coming up to the recover with the 
prettiest little foot in the Avorld point- 
ed out. Her mother came in as she 
was in this attitude ; my Lady had 
been in her closet, having taken poor 
Frank’s conversion in a very serious 
way ; the madcap girl ran up to her 
mother, put her arms round her waist, 
kissed her, tried to make her dance, 
and said : “ Don’t be silly, you kincl 
little mamma, and cry about Frank 
turning Papist. What a figure he 
must be, with a Avhite sheet and a 
candle, walking in a ]»rocession bare- 
foot ! ” And she kicked off her little 
slippers (the wondcrfullcst little shoes 
with wonderful tall red heels : Es- 
mond pounced upon one as it fell close 
beside him), and she put on the droll- 
est little moue, and marched uj) and 
down the room holding F2smond’s 
cane by way of taper. Serious as 
her mood was. Lady CastlcAvood 
could not refrain from laughing ; and 
as for F^smond he looked on with 
that delight Avith which the sight of 
this fair creature ahvays inspired him : 


THE HISTOEY OF HENRY ES^^IOND. 


209 


never had he seen any woman so 
arch, so brilliant, and so beautiful. 

Having linished her inarch, shepnt 
out her foot fur her slipper. 'I'he 
Colonel knelt down : “ If you will be 
Pope I will turn Papist,” says he ; 
and her Holiness jrave him gracious 
leave to kiss the little stockinged foot 
before he put the slipper on. 

Mamma’s feet began to pat on the 
floor during this operation, and 
Peatrix, Avhose bright eyes nothing 
escaped, saw that little mark of im- 
patience. She ran up and embraced 
her mother, with her usual cry of, 
“ O you silly little mamma : your 
feet are quite as pretty as mine,” says 
she : “ they are, cousin, though she 
hides ’em ; but ♦the shoemaker will 
tell you that he makes for both off the 
same last.” 

“ You are taller than I am, dear- 
est,” says her mother, blushing over 
her whole sweet face, — “and — and 
it is your hand, my dear, and not 
your foot he wants you to give him ” ; 
and she said it witli a hysteric laugh, 
that had more of tears than laugliter 
in it ; laying her head on her daugh- 
ter’s fair shoulder, and hiding it there. 
They made a very pretty picture to- 
gether, and looked like a pair of 
sisters, — the sweet simple matron 
seeming younger than her years, and 
her daughter, if not older, yet some- 
how, from a commanding manner 
and grace which she ])Ossessed above 
most women, her mother’s superior 
and protectress. 

“ But oh ! ” cries my mistress, re- 
covering herself after this scene, and 
returning to her usual sad tone, “ ’t is 
a shame that Ave should laugh and be 
making merry on a day when we 
ought to be down on our knees and 
asking pardon.” 

“Asking pardon for what ?” says 
saucy Mrs. Beatrix — “because Frank 
takes it into his head to fast on 
Fridays and Avorship images? Y'ou 
knoAv if yon had been born a Papist, 
mother, a Papist you Avould haA’e 
remained to the end of your days. 
’T is the religion of the King and of 


some of the best quality. For my 
part, I ’mno enemy to it, and think 
Queen Bess Avas not a penny better 
than Queen Mary.” 

“Hush, Beatrix! Do not jest 
Avith sacred things, and remember of 
Avhat parentage you come,” cries my 
Lady. Beatrix Avas ordering her rib- 
bons, and adjusting her tucker, and 
performing a dozen provokingly 
pretty ceremonies, before the glass. 
The girl Avas no hypocrite at least. 
She never at that time could be 
brought to think but of the Avorld and 
her beauty ; and seemed to have no 
more sense of devotion than some 
people have of music, that cannot 
: distinguish one air from anotlier. 
Esmond saAV this fault in her, as he 
saAV many others,— a bad Avife Avould 
Beatrix Esmond make, he tliought, 
for any man under the degree of a 
prince. She Avas born to shine in 
great assemblies, and to adorn 
})alaces, and to command everyAvhere, 
— to conduct an intrigue of politics, 
or to glitter in a queen’s train. But 
to sit at a homely table, and mend 
the stockings of ar poor man’s chil- 
dren ! tliat Avas no fitting duty for 
her, or at least one that she Avouldn’t 
have broke her heart in trying to do. 
She Avas a princess, though she had 
scarce a shilling to her fortune ; and 
one of her subjects — the most abject 
and devoted Avretch, sure, that caxt 
driAxllcd at a AA’oman’s knees — Avas 
this unlucky gentleman ; Avho bound 
his good sense, and reason, and inde- 
pendence, hand and foot, and sub- 
mitted thepi to her. 

And Avho docs not knoAv hoAv ruth- 
lessly Avomen Avill tyrannize Avhen 
they are let to domineer? And Avho 
does not knoAv hoAv useless advice is ? 
I could give good counsel to my de- 
scendants, but I knoAV they ’ll folloAv 
their OAvn Avay, for all their grand- 
father’s sermon. A man gets his 
OAvh experience about Avomen, and 
Avill take nobody’s hearsay; nor, in- 
deed, is the young felloAv Avorth a fig 
that Avould. ’T is I that am in Ioa'g 
with my mistress, not my old grand- 
N 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


m 

mother that counsels me : ’t is I that 
have fixed the value of the thing I 
would have, and know the price I 
would pay for it. It may be worth- 
less to you, hut ’t is all my life to me. 
Had Esmond possessed the Great 
MoguFs crown and all his diamonds, 
or all the Duke of Marlborough’s 
money, or all the ingots sunk at 
Vigo, he would have given them all 
for this woman. A fool he was, if 
you will ; hut so is a sovereign a fool, 
that will give half a principalit}' for a 
little crystal as big as a pigeon’s egg, 
and called a diamond: so is a wealthy 
nobleman a fool, that will face danger 
or death, and spend half his life, and 
all his tranquillity, caballing for a blue 
ribbon ; so is a Dutch merchant a 
fool, that hath been -known to pay ten 
thousand crowns for a tulip. T here ’s 
some particular j;rize we all of us 
value, and that every man of spirit 
will venture his life lor. With this, 
it may be to achieve a great reputa- 
tion for learning ; with that, to be a 
man of fashion, and the admiration of 
the town ; with another, to consum- 
mate a great work of art or poetry, 
and go to immortality that way ; and 
with another, for a certain time of his 
life, thesole object and aim is a woman. 

Whilst Esmond was under the dom- 
ination of this passion, he remem- 
bers many a talk he had with his in- 
timates, who used to rally Our Knight 
of the Rueful Countenance at his de- 
votion, whereof he made no disguise, 
to Beatrix ; and it was with replies 
such as the above he met his friends’ 
satire. “ Granted, I am a fool,” says 
he, “ and no better than you ; but you 
are no better than I. Y^ou have your 
folly you labor for; give me the chari- 
ty of mine. What flatteries do you, 
Mr. St. John, stoop to whisper in the 
cars of a queen’s favorite 1 What 
nights of labor doth not the laziest 
man in the world endure, foregoing his 
bottle and his boon companions, fore- 
going Lais, in whose lap he would like 
to be yawning, that he may prepare 
a speech full of lies, to cajole three hun- 
dred stupid country-gentlemen in the 


House of Commons, and get the hic- 
cuping cheers of the October Club ? 
What days will you spend in your 
jolting chariot ” (Mr. Esmond often 
rode to Windsor, and especially of 
later days, with the secretary). 
“ What hours will you pass on your 
gouty feet, — and how humbly will 
you kneel down to present a despatch, 
— you, the proudest man in the world, 
that has not knelt to God since you 
were a boy, and in that posture whis- 
per, flatter, adore almost, a stu])id 
woman, that ’s often boozy with too 
much meat and drink, Avhen Mr. Sec- 
retary goes tor his audience ! If my 
pursuit is vanity, sure yours is too.” 
And then the Secretary Avould flyout 
in such a rich flow of eloquence, as 
this pen cannot pretend to recall; ad- 
vocating his scheme of ambition, show- 
ing the great good he would do for his 
country when he was the undisputed 
chief of it ; backing his opinion with a 
score of pat sentences from Greek and 
Roman authorities (of which kind of 
learning he made rather an ostenta- 
tious display), and scornfully vaunt- 
ing the very arts and meannesses by 
which fools Avere to be made to fol- 
low him, opponents to be bribed or 
silenced, doubters converted, and ene- 
mies overawed. 

“I am Diogenes,” says Esmond, 
laughing, “ that is taken up for a ride 
in Alexander’s chariot. I have no 
desire to vanquish Darius or to tame 
Bucephalus. I do not Avant Avhat you 
Avant, a great name or a high place : 
to have them would bring me no 
pleasure. But my moderation is 
taste, not virtue ; and I knoAv that 
Avhat I do Avant is as vain as that 
Avhich you long after. Do not grudge 
me my vanity, if I alloAv yours ; or 
rather let us laugh at both inditferent- 
Iv, and at ourselves and at each 
other.” 

“ If your charmer holds out,” says 
St. John, “ at this rate she may keep 
you tAventy years besieging her, 
and surrender by the time you are 
seventy, and she is old enough to be a 
grandmother. I do not say the pur- 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


211 


suit of a particular woman is not as 
pleasant a pastime as any other kind 
of hunting/' he added ; “ only, for my 
part, I find the game won’t run long 
enough. They knock under too soon, 
— that 's the fault I find with ’em.” 

“ The game which you pursue is 
in the habit of being cauglit, and 
used to being pulled down,” says Mr. 
Esmond. 

“ But Dulcinea del Toboso is peer- 
less, eh?” says the other. “Well, 
honest Harry, go and attack wind- 
mills, — perhaps thou a-rt not more 
mad than other people,” St. John 
added, with a sigh. 

9 

CILVPTER III. 

A PAPEK OUT OF THE SPECTATOR. 

Doth any yonng gentleman of my 
progeny, who may read his old grand- 
father’s papers, chance to be presently 
suffering under the passion of Lov^e I 
There is a humiliating cure, but one 
that is easy and almo.>t specific for the 
malady, — which is, to try an alibi. 
Esmond went away from his mistress 
and was cured a half-dozen times ; he 
came back to her side, and instantly 
fell ill again of the fever. He vowed 
that he could leave her and think no 
more of her, and so he could pretty- 
well, at least, succeed in quelling that 
rage and longing he had whenever ha 
was with her ; but as soon as ho re- 
turned ho was as bad as ever again. 
Truly a ludicrous and pitiable object, 
at least exhausting, everybody’s pity 
but his dearest mistress’s. Lady Castle- 
Avood’s, in whose tender breast he re- 
posed all his dreary confessions, and 
Avho never tired of hearing him and 
pleading for him. 

Sometimes Esmond Avould think 
there was hope. Then again he would 
be plagued Avith despair, at some im- 
pertinence or coquetry of his mistress. 
For days they Avould be like brother 
and sister, or the dearest friends, — 
she, simple, fond, and charming, — 
he, happy beyond measure at her 


good behavior. But this AAmuld all 
vanish on a sudden. Either ho Avould 
be too pressing, and hint his love, 
when she Avould rebuff him instantly; 
and give his vanity a box on the ear ; 
or he Avonld be jealous, and Avith per- 
fe(!t good reason, of some ucav admirer 
that had sprung up, or some rich 
young gentleman neAvly arrived in the 
town, that this incorrigible flirt Avould 
set her nets and baits to draAv in. If 
Esmond remonstrated, the little rebel 
Avould say, — “ Who are you ? I shall 
go my OAvn Avay, sirrah, and that Avay 
is towards a husband, and I don’t 
Avant you on the Avay. I am for your 
betters. Colonel, for your betters : do 
you hear that’? You might do if you 
iiad an estate and Avere younger; only 
eight years older than I, you say ! 
pish, you are a hundred years older. 
You are an old, old Graveairs, and I 
should make you miserable, that 
Avould be the only comfort I should 
have in marrying you. But you liaA^e 
not money enough to keep a cat 
decently after you have paid your 
man his Avages, and your landlady 
her bill. Do yon think I am going 
to liA^e in a lodging, and turn the 
mutton at a string Avhilst your honor 
nurses the baby ? Fiddlestick, and 
Avhy did you not get this nonsense 
knocked out ‘of your head Avhen you 
Avere in the Avars ? Y'ou are come 
back more dismal and dreary than 
ever. You and mamma are fit for 
each other. You might be Darby and 
Joan, and play cribbage to the end of 
your lives.” 

“ At least you OAvn to your Avorld- 
liness, my poor ’Trix,” says her 
mother. 

“ Worldliness. O my pretty lady ! 
Do you think that I am a child in the 
nursery, and to be frightened by Bo- 
gey ? Worldliness, to be sure ; and 
pray, madam, Avhere is the harm of 
Avisiiing to be comfortable 1 When 
yon are gone, you dearest old Avoman, 
or Avhen I am tired of you and have 
run aAvay from you, Avhere shall I go ? 
Shall I go and be head nurse to my 
Fo]3ish sister-in-law, take the children 


212 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


their physic, and whip ’em, and put 
’t*m to bed wiien th(‘y are naughty 1 
Shall I be Castlewood’s upper servant, 
and pet haps marry Tom Tusher ? 
M(-rci I I have been long enough 
Frank’s humble servant. Why am I 
not a man ? I have ten times his 
brains, and had I worn the — well, 
don’t let your Ladyship be frightened 
— had 1 worn a sword and periwig 
instead of this mantle and commode 
to Avhich nature has condemned me — 
(though ’t is a pretty stuff, too — 
Cousin Esmond ! you will go to 'the 
Exchange to-morrow, and get the 
exact counterpart of this ribbon, sir; 
do you hear?) — I would have made 
our name talked about. So would 
Graveairs here have made something 
out of our name if he had represented it. 
My Lord Graveairs Avould have done 
very well. Y es, you have a very pretty 
way, and would have made a very 
decent, grave speaker.” And here 
she began to imitate Esmond’s Avay 
of carrying himself, and s])caking to 
his face, and so _ ludicrously that his 
mistress burst out a-laugfiing, and 
even he himself could see there was 
some likeness in the fantastical mali- 
cious caricature. 

“ Yes,” says she, “ I solemnly voav, 
own, and confess, that I want a good 
husband. Where ’s the harm of one ? 
My face is my fortune. Who T1 
come? — buy, buy, buy! I cannot 
toil, neither can I spin, but I can play 
twenty-three games on the cards. I 
can dance the last dance, I can bunt 
the stag, and I think I could shoot 
flying. I can talk as wicked as any 
Avoman of my years, and knoAV enough 
stories to amuse a sulky husband for 
at least one thousand and one nights. 

I have a pretty taste for dress, dia- 
monds, gambling, and old China. I 
loA^e sugar-plums, Malines lace (that | 
you brought me, cousin, is very 
pretty), the opera, and eA’ery thing that 
is useless and costly. I haA'c got a 
monkey and a little black boy, — 
Pompey, sir, go and give a dish of 
chocolate to Colonel Graveairs, — 
and a parrot and a spaniel, and I 


must, have a husband. Cupid, yon 
hear ? ” 

“ Iss, Missis ! ” says Pompey, a 
little grinning negro Lord Pctcr- 
bbroAv gave her, Avith a bird of Para- 
dise in his turbant, and a collar Avith 
his mistress’s name on it. 

” Iss, Missis 1 ” says Beatrix, imitat- 
ing the child. “ And if husband not 
come, Pompey must go fetch one.” 

And Pompey Avent aAvay grinning 
Avith his chocolate tray as Miss Bea- 
trix ran up to her mother and ended 
her sally of mischief in her common 
way, Avith a kiss, — no Avonder that 
upon paying such a penalty her fond 
judge pardoned her. 

When Esmond came home, his 
health Avas still shattered, and he took 
a lodging near to his mistresses, at 
Kensington, glad enough to be seiwed 
by them, and to see them day after 
day. He Avas enabled to see a little 
company, — - and of the sort he liked 
best. Mr. Steele and Mr. Addison 
both did him the honor to visit him ; 
and drank many a plass of good claret 
at his lodging, Avhilst their entertainer, 
through his Avound, Avas kept to diet 
drink and gruel. These gentlemen 
Avere Whigs, and great admirers of 
my Lord Duke of Marlborough ; and 
Esmond AA'as entirely of the other 
party. But their diferent A'ieAvs of 
politics did not prevent the gentle- 
men from agreeing in private, nor 
from allowing, on one evening Avhen 
Plsmond’s kind old patron, Lieuten- 
ant-General Webb, Avith a stick 
and a crutch, hobbled up to the 
Colonel’s lodging (Avhich Avas prettily 
situate at Knightsbridge, betAvecn 
London and Kensington, and looking 
over the Gardens), that the Lieuten- 
ant-General Avas a noble and gallant 
soldier, — and even that he had been 
hardly used in the AVynendael affair. 
He took his revenge in talk, that 
must be confessed ; and if Mr. Addi- 
son had had a mind to Avritc a poem 
about Wynendael, he might have 
heard from the commander’s OAvn lips 
the story a hundred times over. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


213 


Mr. Esmond, forced to be quiet, 
betook himself to literature for a rel- 
axation, and composed his comedy, 
whereof the prompter’s eopy lieth in 
my walnut escritoire, sealed up aud 
docketed, “The F''aithful Fool, a 
Comedy, as it was performed by lier 
IMajesty’s Servants.” 'T was a very 
sentimental piece ; and Mr. Steele, 
who had more of that kind of senti- 
ment than Mr. Addison, admired it, 
whilst the other rather sneered at the 
performance ; though he owned that, 
here and there, it contained some 
retty strokes. He was bringing oat 
is own play of “ Cato ” at the time, 
the blaze of which quite extinguished 
Esmond’s farthing candle ; and his 
name was never put to the piece, 
which was printed as by a Person of 
Quality. Only nine copies were sold, 
though Mr. Dennis, the great critic, 
praised it, and said ’t was a work of 
great merit; and Colonel Esmond 
had the whole impression burned one 
day in a rage, by Jack Lockwood, 
his man. 

All this comedy was full of bitter 
satiric strokes against a certain young 
lady. The plot of the piece was quite 
a new one. A young woman was 
represented with a great number of 
suitors, selecting a pert fribble of a 
peer, in place of the hero (but ill-acted, 
I think, by Mr. Wilkes, the Faithful 
Fool), who persisted in admiring her. 
In the fifth act, Teraminta was made 
to discover the merits of Eugenio 
(the F'. F'.), and to feel a partiality 
for him too late; for he announced 
that he had bestowed his hand and 
estate upon Rosaria, a country lass, 
endowed with every virtue. But it 
must be owned that the audience 
yawned through the play ; and 
that it perished on the third night, 
with only half a dozen persons to 
behold its agonies. Esmond and his 
two mistresses came to the first night, 
and Miss Beatrix fell asleep ; whilst 
her mother, who liad not been to a 
play since King James the Second’s 
time, thought the piece, though not 
brilliant, had a very pretty moral. 


Mr. Esmond dabbled in letters, and 
wrote a deal of prose and verse at 
this time of leisure. When dis- 
pleased with the conduct of Aliss Bea- 
trix, he would compose a satire, in 
wliich he relieved his mind. When 
smarting under the faithlessness of 
women, he dashed off a copy of verses, 
in which he held the whole sex up to 
scorn. One day, in one of these 
moods, he made a little joke, in Avhich 
(swearing him to secrecy) he got his 
friend Dick Steele to help him ; and, 
composing a paper, he had it i)rinted 
exaetly like Steele’s paper, and by his 
printer, and laid on his mistress’s 
breakfast-table the following — 

“ Spectator. 

“ No. 341. Tuesday^ April 1, 1712. 

Mutato nomine de te Fabula narrator. — 
Horace. 

Thyself the moral of the Fable see. — Creech. 

“ Jocasta is known as a woman of 
learning and fashion, and as one of 
the most amiable persons of this 
court and country. She is at home 
two mornings of the week, and all 
the Avits aud a few of the beauties of 
London flock fo her assemblies. 
When she goes abroad to Tunbridge 
or the Bath, a retinue of adorers rides 
the journey with her ; and besides 
the London beaux, she has a croAvd 
of admirers at the Wells, the polite 
amongst the natives of Sussex and 
Somerset pressing round her tea- 
tables, and being anxious for a nod 
from her chair. Joca^^ta’s acipiaint- 
ance is thus very numerous. Indeed, 
’t is one smart Avriter’s work to keep 
her Ausiting-book, — a strong footman 
is engaged to carry it ; and it Avould 
require a much stronger head even 
than Jocasta’s OAvn to remember the 
names of all her dear friends. 

“ Either at Epsom Wells or at 
Tunbridge (for of this important 
matter Jocasta cannot be certain) it 
Avas her Ladyship’s fortune to become 
acquainted Avith a young gentleman, 
Avhose conversation Avas so sprightly, 
and manners amiable, that she invited 


214 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


the c|;i-Jeable young spark to visit 
her if ever -he came to London, wliere 
her house in Spring Garden should be 
open to him. Cluu-ming as ho >vas, 
and Avithout any manner of doubt a 
pretty felloAV, Jocasta liath such a regi- 
ment of the like continually march- 
ing round her standard, that T is no 
Avonder her attention is distracted 
amongst them. And so, though this 
gentleman made a considerable im- 
pression upon her, and touched her 
heart for at least three-and-tAventy 
minutes, it must be OAvned that she 
lias forgotten his name. He is a 
dark man, and may be eight-and- 
tAventy years old. His dress is sober, 
though of rich materials. He has a 
mole on his forehead over his left eye ; 
has a blue ribbon to his cane and 
sword, and Avears his oAvn hair. 

“Jocasta Avas much flattered by be- 
holding her admirer (for that cA'cry- 
body admires Avho sees her is a point 
which she never can for a moment 
doubt) in the next pcAV to her at St. 
James’s Church last Sunday ; and 
the manner in Avhich he appeared to 
go to sleep during the sermon — 
though from under his fringed eyelids 
it Avas evident he Avas casting glances 
of respectful rapture tOAvards Jocasta 
— deeply moA^ed and interested her. 
On coming out of church he found his 
Avay to her chair, and made her an 
elegant bow as she stepped into it. 
She saAv him at Court aftei'Avards, 
Avhere he carried himself Avith a most 
distinguislied air, though none of her 
acquaintances kncAv his name ; and 
the next night he Avas at the play, 
Avhere her Ladyship Avas pleased to 
acknoAvledge him from the side-box. 

“ During the Avhole of the comedy 
she racked her brains so to remember 
his name that she did not hear a 
Avord of the piece : and having the 
happiness to meet him once more in 
the lobby of the playhouse, she Avent 
up to him in a flutter, and bade him 
remember that she kept tAAm nights in 
the Aveek, and that she longed to see 
him at Spring Garden. 

“ He appeared on Tuesday, in a 


rich suit, shoAving a very fine taste 
both ill the tailor and Avearer ; and 
though a knot of us Avere gathered 
round the charming Jocasta, felloAVS 
Avho pretended to knoAv cA'ery face 
upon the tOAvn, not one could tell the 
gentleman’s name in reply to'Jocasta’s 
eager inquiries, flung to the right and 
left of her as he advanced up the room 
Avith a boAv that Avould become a 
duke. 

“ Jocasta acknowledged this salute 
Avith one of those smiles and courtesies 
of Avhich that lady hath the secret. 
She courtesies Avith a languishing air, 
as if to say, ‘You are come at last. 
I have been pining for you ’ : and 
then she finishes her victim AAuth a 
killing look, Avhich declares : ‘ O 
Philander ! I have no eyes but for 
you.’ Camilla hath as good a courtesy 
perhaps, and Thalestris much such 
another look ; but the glance and the 
courtesy together belong to Jocasta of 
all the English beauties alone. 

“‘Welcome to London, sir,’ says 
she. ‘ One can see you arc from the 
country by your looks.’ She Avould 
have said ‘ Epsom,’ or ‘ Tunbridge,’ 
had she remembered rightly at Avhich 
place she had met the stranger; but, 
alas ! she had forgotten. 

“ The gentleman said, ‘ he had 
been in tOAvn but three days ; and one 
of his reasons for coming hither Avas 
to have the honor of paying his 
court to Jocasta.’ 

“ She said, ‘ the waters had agreed 
with her but indiflerently.’ 

“ ‘ The Avaters Avere for the sick,’ 
the gentleman said : ‘ the young and 
beautiful came but to make them 
sparkle. And as the clergyman read 
the service on Sunday,’ he added, 
‘ your Ladyship reminded me of the 
angel that visited the pool.’ A mur- 
mur of approbation saluted this sally. 
Manilio, Avho is a Avit Avhen he is not 
at cards, Avas in such a rage that he 
revoked Avhen he heard it. 

“Jocasta Avas an angel visiting tlie 
Avaters; but at Avhich of the P>cthcs- 
das 1 She Avas puzzled more and 
more ; and, as her Avay ahvays is, 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


215 


looked the more innocent and simple, 
the more artful her intentions were. 

“ ‘ We were discoursing,’ says she, 
‘ about spelling of names and words 
when you came. Why should we say 
goold and write gold, and call china 
chayney, and Cavendish Camlish, and 
Cholmondeley Cliumley 1 If we call 
rulteney Poltney, Avhy should n’t we 
call poultry pultry — and — ’ 

“ ‘ Such an enchantress as your 
Ladyship,’ says he, ‘ is mistress of 
all sorts of spells.’ But this Avas Dr. 
Swift’s pun, and we all kneAv it. 

“‘And — and how do you spell 
your name 1 ’ says she, coming to the 
point at length ; for this sprightly con- 
versation had lasted much longer than 
is here set down, and been carried on 
through at least three dishes of tea. 

“ ‘ O madam,’ says he, ‘ I spell 
my name with the y.’ And laying 
down his dish, my gentleman made 
another elegant bow, and Avas gone 
in a moment. 

“Jocastahath had no sleep since 
this mortification, and the stranger’s 
disappearance. If balked in any- 
thing, she is sure to lose her health 
and temper; and Ave, her servants, 
suffer, as usual, during the angry fits 
of our Queen. Can you help us, Mr. 
Spectator, Avho know everything, to 
read this riddle for her, and set at 
rest all our minds 1 We find in her 
list, Mr. Berty, Mr. Smith, Mr. Pike, 
Mr. Tyler, — avIio may be Mr. Bertie, 
Mr. Smyth, Mr. Pyke, Mr. Tiler, for 
Avhat Avc know. She hath turned 
aAvay the clerk of her visiting-book, a 
poor felloAV Avith a great family of 
children. Read me this riddle, good 
IMr. Shortface, and oblige your ad- 
mirer, — CEdipus.” 

“ The Trumpet Coffee-house, 
AVhitf,hall. 

“ Mr. Spectator, — I am a 
gentleman but little acquainted Avith 
the tOAvn, though I have had a univer- 
sity education, and passed some years 
serving my country abroad, Avhere 
my name is better knoAvn than in 
the coffee-houses and St. James’s. . 1 


“ Taa'o years since my uncle died, 
leaving me a pretty estate in the 
county of Kent; and being at Tun- 
bridge Wells last summer, after my 
mourning Avas OA^cr, and on the look- 
out, if truth must be told, for some 
young lady avIio AA'ould share Avith 
me the solitude of my great Kentish 
house, and be kind to my tenantry 
(for Avhom a Avoman can do a great 
deal more good than the best-inten- 
tioned man can), I Avas greatly fasci- 
nated by a young lady of London, 
Avho Avas the toast of all the company 
at the Wells. Every one knows Sac- 
charissa’s beauty ; and I think, Mr. 
Spectator, no one better than herself. 

“ My table-book informs me that I 
danced no less than seven-and-tAventy 
sets Avith her at the Assetnbly. I 
treated her to the fiddles tAvice. I Avas 
admitted on several days to her lodg- 
ing, and received by her Avith a great 
deal of distinction, and, for a' time, 
Avas entirely her slaA^e. It Avas only 
Avhen I found, from common talk of 
the company at the Wells, and from 
narroAvly Avatching one, Avho I once 
thought of asking the most sacred 
question a man can put to a Avoman, 
that I became aAvare Iioav unfit she 
Avas to be a country gentleman’s 
wife ; and that this fair creature Avas 
but a heartless Avorldly jilt, playing 
Avith affections that she never meant 
to return, and, indeed, inca])able of 
returning them. ’T is admiration 
such Avomen Avant, not love that 
touches them ; and I can conceiA’c, in 
her old age, no more Avretched crea- 
ture than this lady Avill be, Avhen her 
beauty hath deserted her, Avhen her 
admirers have left her, and she hath 
neither friendship nor religion to con- 
sole her. 

“ Business calling me to London, 
I Avent to St. James’s Church last 
Sunday, and there opposite me sat 
my beauty of the AVells. Her be- 
havior during the AAdiole service Avas 
so pert, languishing, and absurd ; she 
flirted her fan, and ogled and eyed 
me in a manner so indecent, that I 
was obliged to shut my eyes, so as 


21G 


THE PIISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


actually not to see her, and Avhcnever 
I o])ened them beheld hers (and very 
bright they are) still staring at me. I 
fell in with her afterwards at Court, 
and at the playhouse ; and here noth- 
ing Avonld satisfy her but she must 
elbow through the crowd and speak 
to me, and invite me to the assembly, 
which she holds at her house, not 
very far from Ch-r-ng Cr-ss. 

“ Having made ’her a promise to 
attend, of course I kept my promise ; 
and found the young widow in the 
midst of a half-dozen of card-tables, 
and a crowd of wits and admirers. 
I made the best bow I could, and 
advanced towards her; and saw by a 
peculiar puzzled look in her face, 
though she tried to hide her perplex- 
ity, that she had forgotten even my 
name. 

“Her talk, artful as it was, con- 
vinced me that I had guessed aright. 
She turned the conversation most 
ridiculously upon the spellingof names 
and words ; and I replied Avith as 
ridiculous fulsome compliments as I 
could pay her : indeed, one in Avhieh 
I eomparcd her to an angel visiting 
the sick aa^cIIs, went a little too far : 
nor .should I have employed it, but 
that the allusion came from the 
Second Lesson last Sunday, Avhieh 
Avc both had heard, and I was pressed 
to ansAver her. 

“ Then she came to the question, 
Avhich I knew Avas aAvaiting me, and 
asked hoAV I spe/t my name ? ‘ Alad- 

am,’ says I, turning on my heel, ‘ I 
spell it Avith a And so I left her, 
Avondering at tire light-heartedness of 
the toAvn-people, avIio forget and 
make friends so easily, and resolved 
to look elscAvliere for a partner for 
your constant reader, 

Cymon Wyldoats. 

“Y^'oti knoAv my real name, Mr. 
Spectator, in Avhich there is no such 
a letter as hiipsilon. But if the lady, 
Avhom I have called Saccharissa, 
wonders that I appear no more at the 
tea-tables, she is hereby respectfully 
informed the reason 


The above is a parable Avhereof the 
AATiter Avill noAV expound the mean- 
ing. Jocasta Avas no other tlian 
Miss Esmond, Maid of Honor to her 
Majesty. She had told Mr. Esmond 
this little story of having met a 
gentleman somcAvhere, and forgetting 
his name, Avhen the gentleman, Avith 
no such malicious intentions as those 
of “ Cymon ” in the above fable, made 
the ansAver simply as above ; and Ave 
all laughed to think hoAv little Mis- 
tress Jocasta-Beatrix had profited by 
her artifice and precautions. 

As for Cymon he Avas intended to 
represent yours and her very humble 
servant, the Avriter of the apologue 
and of this story, Avhieh Ave had 
printed on a “ Spectator ” paper at 
Mr. Steele’s office, exactly as those 
famous journals AA’ere printed, and 
Avhieh Avas laid on the table at break- 
fast in plaee of the real newspaper. 
Mistress Joeasta, Avho had plenty of 
Avit, could not Ha'c Avithout her Spec- 
tator to her tea ; and this sham Spec- 
tator Avas intended to conAcy to the 
young Avoman that she herself Avas a 
flirt, and that Cymon Avas a gentle- 
man of honor and resolution, seeing 
all her fruits, and determined to break 
the ehains once and foreA'cr. 

For though enough hath been said 
about this loA’e-business already, — 
enough, at least, to proA'e to the Avrit- 
er’s heirs Avhat a silly fond fool their 
old grandfather Avas, aaIio Avould like 
them to consider him as a very Avise 
old gentleman ; yet not near all has 
been told concerning this matter, 
Avhich, if it Avere alloAved to take in 
Esmond’s journal the space it occu- 
pied in his time, AAmuld Aveary his 
kinsmen and women of a hundred 
years’ time beyond all enduranee; 
and form such a diary of folly and 
driA^elling, raptures and rage, as no 
man of ordinary vanity Avould like to 
leaA^e behind him. 

The truth is, that, Avhether* she 
laughed at him or encouraged him ; 
Avhether she smiled or Avas cold, and 
turned her smiles on another ; world- 
ly and ambitious, as he knew her to 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 217 


be ; hard and careless, as she seemed 
to grow with her court life, and a 
hundred admirers that came to her 
and left her; Esmond, do what he 
would, never could get Beatrix out 
of his mind ; thought of her con- 
stantly at home or away. If he read 
his name in a Gazette, or escaped the 
shot of a cannon-ball or a greater 
danger in the campaign, as has hap- 
pened to him more than once, the 
instant thought after the honor 
achieved or the danger avoided, Avas, 
What will she say of it ? ” “ Will 

this distinction or the idea of this 
peril elate her or touch her, so as to 
be better inclined towards me ? He 
could no more help this passionate 
fidelity of temper than he could help 
the eyes he saw with, — one or the 
other seemed a part of his nature ; 
and knowing every one of her faults 
as well as the keenest of her detract- 
ors, and the folly of an attachment 
to such a woman, of which the frui- 
tion could never bring him happiness 
for above a week, there Avas yet si 
charm about this Circe from Avhich 
the poor deluded gentleman could 
not free himself; and for a much 
longer period than Ulysses (another 
middle-aged officer, Avho had travelled 
mucli, and been in the foreign Avars), 
Esmond felt himself inthralled and 
besotted by the Aviles of this enchant- 
ress. Quit her ! He could no more 
quit her, as the Cymon of this story 
was made to quit his false one, than 
he could lose his consciousness of 
yesterday. She had but to raise her 
finger, and he Avould come back from 
CA'er so far ; she had but to say I have 
discarded such and such an adorer, 
and the poor infatuated Avretch would 
be sure to come and roder about her 
mother’s house, Avilling to be put on 
the ranks of suitors, though he knew 
he might be cast off the next Aveek. 
If he were like Ulysses in his folly, at 
least she Avas in so far like Penelope 
that she had a croAvd of suitors, and 
undid day after day and night after 
night the handiwork of fascination 
and the Aveb of coquetry Avith which 


she Avas wont to allure and entertain 
them. 

Part of her coquetry may haA^e come 
from her position about the Court, 
where the beautiful maid of honor 
Avas the light about which a thousand 
beaux came and fluttered ; Avhere she 
Avas sure to have a ring of admirers 
round her, croAvding to listen to her 
repartees as much as to admire her 
beauty ; and Avhere she spoke and 
listened to much free talk, such as one 
never Avould have thought the lips or 
ears of Rachel CastlcAvood’s daughter 
Avould have uttered or heard. When 
in waiting at Windsor or Hampton, 
the Court ladies and gentlemen Avould 
be making riding parties together; 
Mrs. Beatrix in a horseman’s coat 
and hat, the for.emost after the stag- 
hounds and over the park fences, a 
croAvd of young felloAvs at her heels. 
If the English country ladies at this 
time Avere the most pure and modest 
of any ladies in the AA^orld, — the Eng- 
lish town and court ladies permitted 
themselves Avords and behavior that 
Avere neither modest nor pure ; and 
claimed, some of them, a freedom 
which those Avho love that sex most 
Avould never Avish to grant them. The 
gentlemen of my family that follow 
after me (for I don’t encourage the 
ladies to pursue any such studies) 
may read in the Avorks of Mr. Con- 
greve and Dr. Swift and others, Avhat 
was the conversation and Avhat the 
habits of our time. 

The most beautiful Avoman in Eng- 
land in 1712, Avhen Esmond returned 
to this country, a lady of high birth, 
and though of no fortune to be sure, 
Avith a thousand fiAscinations of Avitand 
manners, Beatrix Esmond Avas now 
six-and-tAventy years old, and Beatrix 
Esmond still. Of her hundred ador- 
ers she had not chosen one for a hus- 
band ; and those Avho had asked had 
been jilted by her ; and more still had 
left lier. A succession of near ten 
years’ crops of beauties had come up 
since her time, and had been reaped 
by proper hmhandn\QW, if we may 
make an agricultural simile, and had 


218 


THE HISTOKY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


been housed comfortably long ago. 
Her own contemporaries were sober 
mothers by this time ; girls with not 
a tithe of her charms, or her wit, hav- 
ing made good matches, and now 
claiming ])recedence over the spinster 
who but lately had derided and out- 
shone them. The young beauties 
were beginning to look down on Bea- 
trix as an old maid, and sneer, and 
call her one of Charles II. ’s ladies, 
and ask whether her portrait was not 
in the Hampton Court Gallery "? But 
still she reigned, at least in one man’s 
opinion, superior over all the little 
misses that were the toasts of the 
young lads; and in Esmond’s eyes 
was ever perfectly lovely and young. 

Who knows how many were nearly 
made happy by possessing her, or, 
rather, how many were fortunate in 
escaping this siren ? ’T is a marvel 
to think that her mother was the 
purest and simplest woman in the 
whole world, and that this girl should 
have been born from her. I am in- 
clined to fancy, my mistress, who 
never said a harsh word to her chil- 
dren (and but twice or thrice only to 
one person), must have been too fond 
and pressing with the maternal au- 
thority ; for her son and her daughter 
both revolted early ; nor after their 
first flight from the nest could they 
ever be brought back quite to the fond 
mother’s bosom. Lady Castlewood, 
and perhaps it was as well, knew lit- 
tle of her daughter’s life and real 
thoughts. How was she to apprehend 
what passes in Queen’s antechambers 
and at Court tables ? Mrs. Beatrix 
asserted her own authority so reso- 
lutely that her mother quickly gave 
in. The maid of honor had her own 
equipage ; went from home and came 
back at her own will ; her mother 
was alike ])Owerless to resist her or to 
lead her, or to coinmand or to per- 
suade l>er. 

She had been engaged once, twice, 
thrice, to be married, Esmond be- 
lieved. When he quitted home, it 
hath been said, she was promised to 
my Lord Ashburnham, and now, on 


his return, behold his Lordship w'as 
just married to Lady Mary Butler, 
the Duke of Ormonde’s daughter, and 
his fine houses, and twelve thousand 
a year of fortune, for which Miss 
Beatrix had rather coveted him, was 
out of her power. To her Esmond 
could say nothing in regard to the 
breaking of this match ; and, asking 
his mistress about it, all Lady Castle- 
wood answered was : “ Do not speak 
to me about it, Harry. I cannot tell 
you how or why they parted, and I 
fear to inquire. I have told you be- 
fore that with all her kindness, and 
wit, and generosity, and that sort of 
splendor of nature she has, I can say 
but little good of poor Beatrix, and 
look •with dread at the marriage she 
will form. Her mind is fixed on am- 
bition only, and making a great 
figure; and, this achieved, she will 
tire of it as she does of everything. 
Heaven help her husband, whoever he 
shall be ! My Lord Ashburnham was 
a most. excellent young man, gentle 
and 3’et manly, of very good parts, so 
they told me, and as my little conver- 
sation would enable me to judge : 
and a kind temper — kind and endur- 
ing I ’m sure he must have been, from 
all that he had to endure. But he 
quitted her at last, from some crown- 
ing piece of caprice or tyranny of 
hers ; and now he has married a 
young woman that will make him a 
thousand times happier than my poor 
girl ever could.” 

The rupture, whatever its cause 
was (I heard the scandal, but indeed 
shall not take pains to repeat at length 
in this diary the trumpery coffee-house 
story), caused a good deal of low talk ; 
and Mr. Esmond was present at my 
Lord’s appearance at the Birthday 
■with his bi ide, over ■whom the revenge 
that Beatrix took was to look so im- 
perial and lovely that the modest 
downcast young lady could not ap- 
pear beside hei*, and Lord Ashburn- 
ham, who had his reasons for wishing 
to avoid her, slunk away quite shame- 
faced, and very early. This time his 
Grace the Duke of Hamilton, whom 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 219 


Esmond had seen about her before, 
was eonstant at Miss Beatrix’s side : 
lie was one of the most splendid gen- 
tlemen of Europe, accomplished by 
books, by travel, by long command of 
the best company, distinguished as a 
statesman, having been ambassador 
ill King William’s time, and a noble 
speaker in the Scots’ Parliament, 
where he had led the party that was 
against the Union, and though now 
five or six and forty years of age, a 
gentleman so high in stature, accom- 
plished in wit, and favored in person, 
that he might pretend to the hand of 
any princess in Europe. 

Should you like the Duke for a 
cousin ? ” says Mr. Secretary St. 
John, whispering to Colonel Esmond 
in French ; “ it appears that the 
widower consoles himself.” 

But to return to our little Spectator 
paper and the conversation which 
grew out of it. Miss Beatrix at first 
was quite hit (as the plu'ase of that 
day was), and did not “smoke” the 
authorship of the story ; indeed Es- 
mond had tried to imitate as well as 
he could Mr. Steele’s manner (as for 
the other author of the Spectator, his 
prose style I think is altogether inimit- 
able) ; and Dick, who was the idlest 
and best natured of men, would have 
let the piece pass into his journal and 
go to posterity as one of his own lu- 
cubrations, but that Esmond did not 
care to have a lady’s name whom he 
loved sent forth to the world in a light 
so unfavorable. Beatri.x pished and 
psha’d over the paper; Colonel Es- 
mond watching with no little in- 
terest her countenance as she read 
it. 

“ How stupid your friend Mr. 
Steele becomes ! ” cries Miss Beatrix. 
“ Epsom and Tunbridge ! AYill he 
never have done Avith Epsom and 
Tunbridge, and with beaux at church, 
and Jocastas and Lindamiras Why 
docs he not call Avomen Nelly and 
Betty, as their godfathers and god- 
mothers did for them in their bap- 
tism 1 ” 

“ Beatrix, Beatrix ! ” says her 


mother, “ speak gravely of grave 
things.” 

“ Mamma thinks the Church Cate- 
chism came from heaven, I belicA^e,” 
^ays Beatrix, with a laugh, “ and Avas 
brought down by a bishop from a 
mountain. O, hoAV 1 used to break 
my heart over it ! Besides, I had a 
Bopish godmother, mamma ; why did 
you give me one 1 ” 

“ I gave you the Queen’s name,” 
says her mother, blushing. “ And a 
very pretty name it is,” said some- 
body else. 

Beatrix Avent on reading — “ Spell 
my name Avith a y — Avhy, you 
Avretch,” says she, turning rouncl to 
Colonel Esmond, “ you have been 
telling my story to Mr. Steele — or 
stop — you have written the paper 
yourself to turn me into ridicule. 
For shame, sir ! ” 

Poor Mr. Esmond felt rather 
frightened, and told a truth, which 
Avas nevertheless an entire falsehood. 
“ Upon my honor,” says he, “ I have 
not even read the Spectator of this 
morning.” Nor had he, for that Avas 
not the Spectator, but a sham news- 
paper put in its place. 

She Avent on reading: her face 
rather flushed as she read. “ No,” 
she says, “ I think you could n’t have 
written it. I think it must have been 
Mr. Steele when he Avas drunk, — and 
afraid of his horrid vulgar wife. 
Whenever I see an enonnous com- 
pliment to a Avoman, and some out- 
rageous panegyric about female vir- 
tue, I ahvays feel sure that the Cap- 
tain and his better-half have fallen 
out overnight, and that he has been 
brought home tipsy, or has been found 
out in — ” 

“ Beatrix ! ” cries the Lady Castle- 

AA'OOd. 

“ Well, mamma ! Do not cry out 
before you are hurt. I am not going 
to say anything wrong. I Avon’t 
giA'e you more annoyance than you 
can help, you pretty kind mamma. 
Yes, and your little ’Trix is a naughty 
little ’Trix, and she leaves undone 
those things which she ought to have 


220 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


clone, and does those things which 
she ought not to have done, and 
there ’s — well now — I won’t go on. 
Yes, I will, unless you kiss me.” 
And with this the young lady lays 
aside her paper, and runs up to her 
mother and performs a variety of em- 
braces with her Ladyship, saying as 
plain as eyes could speak to Mr. Es- 
mond, — “ There, sir ; would not yon 
like to play the very same pleasant 
game ? ” 

“Indeed, madam, I would,” says 
he. 

“ Would what ? ” asked Miss Bea- 
trix. 

“ What you meant when you looked 
at me in that provoking way,” an- 
swers Esmond. 

“ What a confessor ! ” cries Bea- 
trix, with a laugh. 

“ What is it Henry would like, my 
dear 1 ” asks her mother, the kind 
soul, who was always thinking what 
we would like, and how she could 
please us. 

The girl nms up to her, — “ O, 
you silly kind mamma,” she says, 
kissing her again, “that’s what Har- 
ry would like ” ; and she broke out 
into a great joyfiil laugh; and Lady 
Castlewood blushed as bashful as a 
maid of sixteen. 

“Look at her, Harry,” whispers 
Beatrix, running up ancl speaking in 
lier sweet low tones. “ Does n’t the 
blush become her ? Is n’t she pretty ? 
She looks younger than I am, and I 
am sure she is a hundred million 
thousand times better.” 

Esmond’s kind mistress left the 
room, carrying her blushes away 
w^tli her. 

“ If we girls at Court could grow 
such roses as that.” continues Bea- 
trix, with her laugh, “ what would n’t 
we do to preserve ’em? We ’d clip 
their stalks and put ’em in salt and 
water. But those flowers don’t 
bloom at Hampton Court and Wind- 
sor, Henry.” She paused for a min- 
ute, and the smile fading away from 
her April face, gave place to a men- 
acing shower of tears : “ 0, how good. 


she is, Harry,” Beatrix went on to 
say. “ O, what a saint she is ! Her 
goodness frightens me. I ’m not fit 
to live with her. I should be better I 
think if she were not so perfect. She 
has had a great sorrow in her life, 
and a great secret; and repented of 
it. It could not have been my fa- 
ther’s death. She talks freely about 
that; nor could she have loved him 
very much, — though who knows 
what we women do love, and why ? ” 

“ What and why, indeed,” says 
Mr. Esmond. 

“ No one knows,” Beatrix went on, 
without noticing this interruption ex- 
cept by a look, “what my mother’s 
life is. She hath been at early prayer 
this morning : she passes hours in her 
closet; if you were to follow her 
thither, you would find her at prayers 
now. She tends the poor of the 
place, — the horrid dirty poor ! She 
sits through the curate’s sermons, — 
O those dreary sermons ! And you 
see, on a Ixau dire ; but good as They 
are, people like her are not fit to com- 
mune with us of the world. There 
is always, as it were, a third person 
present, even when I and my mother 
are alone. She can’t be frank with 
me quite ; who is always thinking of 
the next world, and of her guardian 
angel, perhaps that’s in company. 

0 Harry, I ’m jealous of that guar- 
dian angel ! ” here broke out Mis- 
tress Beatrix. “ It ’s horrid, I know ; 
but my mother’s life is all for heaven, 
and mine — all for earth. We can 
never be friends quite ; and then, she 
cares more for Frank’s little finger 
than she docs for me, — I know she 
does ; and she loves you, sir, a great 
deal too much ; and I hate you for it. 

1 would have had her all to myself ; 
but she would n’t. In my childhood, 
it w.TS my father she loved — (O, 
how could she? I remember him 
kind and handsome, but so stupid, 
and not being able to speak after 
drinking wine). And then it was 
Frank ; and now it is heaven and the 
clergyman. How I would have loved 
her ! From a child I used to be in a 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


221 


rage that she loved anybody but me ; 
but she loved you all better, — all, I 
know she did. And now she talks of 
the blessed consolation of religion. 
Dear soul ! slie thinks she is happier 
for believing, as she intist, that we are 
all of us wicked and miserable sin- 
ners ; and this world is only a pied- 
a-terre for the good, where they stay 
for a night, as we do, coining from 
Walcote, at that great, dreary, uncom- 
fortable Hounslow Inn, in those 
horrid beds, — 0, do you remember 
those horrid lieds ? — and the chariot 
comes and fetches them to heaven the 
next morning.” 

“Hush, Beatrix,” says Mr. Es- 
mond. 

“ Hush, indeed. You are a hypo- 
crite, too, Henry, with your grave 
airs and your glum face. We are all 
hypocrites. 0 dear me ! We arc all 
alone, alone, alone,” says poor Bea- 
trix, her fair breast heaving with a 
sigh. 

“ It was I that writ every line of 
that paper, my dear,” says Mr. Es- 
mond. “ You are not so worldly as 
you think yourself, Beatrix, and bet- 
ter than we believe you. The good 
we have in us we doubt of ; and the 
happiness that ’s to our hand we 
throw away. You bend your am- 
bition on a great marriage and estab- 
lishment, — and whyl You ’ll tire 
of them when you win them ; and be 
no happier with a coronet on your 
coach — ” 

“ Than riding pillion with Lubin 
to market,” says Beatrix. “Thank 
you, Lubin ! ” 

“I ’m a dismal shepherd, to be 
sure,” answers Esmond, with a blush ; 
“ and require a nymph that can tuck 
my bedclothes up, and tnake me 
water-gruel. Well, Tom Lockwood 
can do that. He took me out of the 
fire upon his shoulders, and nursed 
me through my illness as love will 
scarce ever do. Only good wages, 
and a hope of my clothes, and the 
contents of my ])ortmanteau. How 
long was it that Jacob served an ap- 
prenticeship for Kachel '? ” 


“For mamma? ” says Beatrix. “It 
is mamma your honor wants, and 
that I should have the happiness of 
calling you papa ? ” 

Esmond blushed again. “ I spoke 
of a Rachel that a shepherd courted 
five thousand years ago ; Avhen shep- 
herds were longer lived than now. 
And my meaning was, that since I 
saw you first after our separation — 
a child you were then ...” 

“And I put on my best stock- 
ings to captivate you, I remember, 
sir . . . ” 

“ You have had my heart ever 
since then, such as it was ; and such 
as you were, I cared for no other 
woman. What little reputation I 
have won, it was that you might be 
pleased with it : and indeed, it is not 
much ; and I think a hundred fools 
in the army have got and deserved 
quite as much. Was there something 
in the air of that dismal old Castle- 
wood that made us all gloomy, and 
dissatisfied, and lonely under its ru- 
ined old roof? We were all so, even 
when together and united, as it seem- 
ed, following our separate schemes, 
each as we sat round the table.” 

“ Dear, dreary old place ! ” cries 
Beatrix. “ Mamma hath never had 
the heart to go back thither since we 
left it, when — never mind how many 
years ago.” And she flung back 
her curls, and looked over her fair 
shoulder at the mirror superbly, as if 
she said, “ Time, I defy you.” 

“ Yes,” says Esmond, who had the 
art, as she owned, of divining many 
of her thoughts. “ You can afford to 
look in the glass still; and only be 
pleased by the truth it tells you. As 
for me, do you know what my scheme 
is ? I think of asking Frank to give 
me the Virginian estate King Charles 
gave our grandfiither. (She gave a 
superb courtesy, as much as to say, 
‘Our grandfather, indeed! Thank 
you, Mr. Bastard.’) Yes, I know 
you are thinking of my bar-sinister, 
and so am I. A man cannot get over 
it in this country; unless, indeed, he 
wears it across a king’s arms, when 


222 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


is a highly honorable coat ; and I 
am thinking of retiring into the plan- 
tations, and building myself a wig- 
wam in the woods, and perhaps, if I 
want company, suiting myself with a 
stjuaw. We will send your Ladyship 
furs over for the winter; and, when 
you are old, we dl provide you with 
tobacco. I am not quite clever enough, 
or not rogue enough, — I know not 
which, — for the Old World. I may 
make a place for myself in the New, 
W'hich is not so full; and found a 
family there. When you are a mother 
yours'elf, and a great lady, perhaps I 
shall send you over from the planta- 
tion some day a little barbarian that 
is half Esmond half Mohock, and you 
will be kind to him for his father’s 
sake, who was, after all, your kins- 
man ; and whom you loved a little.” 

“ What folly you are talking, Har- 
ry,” says Miss Beatrix, looking with 
her great eyes. 

“’T is sober earnest,” says Es- 
mond. And, indeed, the scheme had 
been dwelling a good deal in his mind 
for some time past, and especially 
since his return home, w'hen he found 
liow hopeless, and even degrading to 
himself, his passion Avas. “ No,” 
says he, then : “ I have tried half a 
dozen times now. I can bear being 
aAvay from you w'ell enough ; but be- 
ing with you is intolerable ” (another 
low courtesy on Mistress Beatrix’s 
part), “ and I will go. I have enough 
to buy axes and guns for my men, 
and beads and blankets for the sava- 
ges ; and I ’ll go and live amongst 
them.” 

“ Mon ami** she says, quite kindly, 
and taking Esmond’s hand, with an air 
of great compassion, “you can’t think 
that in our position anything more 
than our present friendship is possible. 
You are our elder brother, — as such 
we view you, pitying your misfortune, 
not rebuking you witli it. Why. you 
arc old enough and grave enough to 
be our father. I always thought you 
a hundred years old, Harry, with your 
solemn face and grave air. I feel as 
a sister to you and can no more. Is n’t 


that enough, sir ? ” And she put her 
face quite close to his — Avho know’S 
Avith AA'hat intention ? 

“ It ’s too much,” says Esmond, 
turning aAvay. “ I can’t bear this 
life, and shall leave it. 1 shall stay, I 
think, to see you married, and then 
freight a ship, and call it the ‘Bea- 
trix,’ and bid you all . . . ” 

Here the servant, flinging the door 
open, announced his Grace the Duke 
of Hamilton, and Esmond started 
back Avith something like an impreca- 
tion on his lips, as the nobleman en- 
tered, looking splendid in his star and 
green ribbon. He gave Mr. Esmond 
just that gracious boAv Avhich he AA^ould 
have given to a lackey Avho fetched 
him a chair or took his hat, and seat- 
ed himself by Miss Beatrix, as the 
poor Colonel A\'cnt out of the room 
Avith a hang-dog look. 

Esmond’s mistress Avas in the loAvcr 
room as he passed doAvn stairs. She 
often met him as he Avas coming aAvay 
from Beatrix ; and she beckoned him 
into the apartment. 

“ Has she told you, Harry? ” Lady 
CastlcAvood said. 

“ She has been A'cry frank — A’ery,” 
says Esmond. 

“But — but about Avhat is going to 
happen ? ” 

“ What is going to happen ? ” says 
he, his heart beating. 

“ His Grace the Duke of Hamilton 
has proposed to her,” says my Lady. 
“ He made his offer yesterday. They 
Avill marry as soon as his mourning is 
over ; and you have heard his Grace 
is appointed Ambassador to Paris; 
and the Ambassadress goes Avith him.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Beatrix’s neav suitor. 

The gentleman Avhom Beatrix had 
selected Avas, to be sure, twenty years 
older than the Colonel, Avith' Avhom 
she quarrelled for being too old ; but 
this one w^as but a nameless adven- 
turer, and the other the greatest duke 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


223 


in Scotland, with pretensions even to 
a still higher title. My Lord Duke 
of Hamilton had, indeed, every merit 
belonging to a gentleman, and he had 
had the time to mature his accom- 
plishments fully, being upwards of 
fifty years old when Madam Beatrix 
selected him for a bridegroom. Duke 
Hamilton, then Earl of Arran, had 
been educated at the famous Scottish 
university of Glasgow, and, coming 
to London, became a great favorite of 
Charles the Second, who made him a 
Lord of his bedchamber, and after- 
wards appointed him ambassador to 
the Erench king, under whom the 
Earl served two campaigns as his 
IMajcsty’s aide-de-camp ; and he was 
absent on this service when King 
Charles died. 

King Janies continued my Lord’s 
promotion, — made him Master of the 
AVardrobe and Colonel of the Royal 
Regiment of Horse ; and his Lordship 
adhered firmly to King James, being 
of the small company that never quit- 
ted that unfortunate monarch till his 
departure out of England ; and then 
it was, in 1688 namely, that he made 
the friendship with Colonel Francis 
Esmond, that had always been, more 
or less, maintained in the two fami- 
lies. 

The Earl professed a great admira- 
tion for King William always, but 
never could give him his allegiance ; 
and was engaged in more than one of 
the plots in the late great King’s 
reign which always ended in the 
plotters’ discomfiture, and generally 
in their pardon, by the magnanimity of 
the King. Lord Arran was twice 
prisoner in the Tower during this 
reign, undauntedly saying, when of- 
fered his I’elease, upon parole not to 
engage against King William, that he 
would not give his word, because “ he 
was sure he could not keep it” ; but, 
nevertheless, he was both times dis- 
charged without any trial ; and the 
King bore this noble enemy so little 
malice, that when his mother, the 
Duchess of Hamilton, of her own 
right, resigned her claim on her bus- 1 


band’s death, the Earl was, by patent 
signed at Loo, 1690, created Duke of 
Hamilton, Marquis of Clydesdale, and 
Earl of Arran, with precedency from 
the original creation. His Grace took 
the oaths and his seat in the Scottish 
parliament in 1700 : was fiimous there 
for his patriotism and eloquence, es- 
pecially in the debates about the 
Union Bill, which Duke Hamilton op- 
posed with all his strength, though he 
would not go the length of the Scot- 
tish gentry, who were for resisting it 
by force of arms. ’T was said he 
withdrew his opposition all of a sud- 
den, and in consequence of letters 
from the King at St. Germains, who 
entreated him on his allegiance not to 
thwart the Qfieen his sister in this 
measure ; and the Duke, being always 
bent upon etiecting tlie King’s return 
to his kingdom through a reconcilia- 
tion between his Majesty and Queen 
Anne, and quite averse to his landing 
with arms and French troops, held 
aloof, and kept out of Scotland during 
the time Avhen the Chevalier de St. 
George’s descent from Dunkirk was 
projected, passing his time in England 
in his great estate of Stafibrdshire. 

When the Whigs went out of office 
in 1710, the Queen began to show his 
Grace the very greatest marks of 
her favor. He was created Duke of 
Brandon and Baron of Dutton in 
England ; having the Thistle already 
originally bestowed on him by King 
James the Second, his Grace was now 
promoted to the’ honor of the Garter, 
— a distinction so great and illus- 
trious, that no subject hath ever 
borne them hitherto together. AVhen 
this objection was made to her Majes- 
ty, she was pleased to say, “ Such a 
subject as the Duke of Hamilton has 
a pre-eminent claim to every mark of 
distinction Avbich a crowned head can 
confer. I will henceforth wear both 
orders myself.” 

At the Chapter held at Windsor in 
1712, the Duke and other knights, in- 
cluding Lord - Treasurer, the new- 
created Earl of Oxford and Mortimer, 
were installed ; and a few days after- 


224 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND, 


wards his Grace was appointed Am- 
bassador-Extraordinary to France, 
and his cquipa<;es, plate, and liveries 
commanded, of the most sumptuous 
kind, not only for his Excellency the 
Ambassador, but for her Excellency 
the Ambassadress, who was to accom- 
pany him. Her arms were already 
quartered on the coach panels, and 
her brother was to hasten over on the 
appointed day to give her away. 

His Lordship was a widower, hav- 
ing married, in 1698, Elizabeth, 
daughter of Digby Lord Gerard, by 
which marriage great estates came in- 
to the Hamilton family ; and out of 
these estates came, in part, that tragic 
quarrel which ended the Duke’s 
career. 

From the loss of a tooth to that of 
a mistress there 's no pang that is not 
bearable. The apprehension is much 
more cruel than the certainty ; and 
we make up our mind to the misfor- 
tune when ’t is irremediable, part 
with the tormentor, and mumble our 
crust on t’other side of the jaws. I 
think Colonel Esmond was relieved 
when a ducal coach and six came and 
whisked his charmer away out of his 
reach, and placed her in a higher 
sphere. As you have seen the nymph 
in the opera-machine go up to the 
clouds at the end of the piece where 
Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, and all the 
divine company of Olympians are 
seated, and quaver out her last song 
as a goddess : so when this portentous 
elevation was accomplished in the 
Esmond family, I am not sure that 
every one of us did not treat the di- 
vine Beatrix with special honors ; at 
least the saucy little beauty carried 
her head with a toss of supreme au- 
thority,* and assumed a touch-me-not 
air, which all her friends very good- 
humoredly bowed to. 

An old army acquaintance of Colo- 
nel Esmond’s, honest Tom Trett, 
who had sold his company, married a 
wife and turned merchant in the city, 
was dreadfully gloomy for a lorig 
time, though living in a fine house on 


the river, and carrying on a great 
trade to all appearance. At length 
Esmond saw his friend’s name in the 
Gazette as a bankrupt ; and a week 
after this circumstance my bankrupt 
walks into Mr. Esmond’s lodging 
with a face perfectly radiant with 
good-humor, and as jolly and careless 
as when they had sailed from South- 
ampton ten years before for Vigo. 
“ This bankruptcy,” says Tom, “ has 
been hanging over my head these 
three years ; the thought hath pre- 
vented my sleeping, and I have looked 
at poor Folly’s head on t’other pil- 
low, and then towards my razor on 
the table, and thought to put an end 
to myself, and so give my woes the 
slip. But now we are bankrupts : 
Tom Trett pays as many shillings in 
the pound as he can ; his wife has 
a little cottage at Fulham and her 
fortune secured to herself. I am 
afraid neither of bailiff' nor of creditor : 
and for the last six nights have slept 
easy.” So it was that when Fortune 
shook her wings and left him, honest 
Tom cuddled himself up in his ragged 
virtue, and fell asleep. 

Esmond did not tell his friend how 
much his story applied to Esmond 
too ; but he laughed at it, and used it ; 
and having fairly struck his docket 
in this love transaction, determined to 
put a cheerful face on his bankruptcy. 
Perhaps Beatrix was a little offended 
at his gayety. “ Is this the way, sir, 
that you receive the announcement of 
your misfortune,” says she, “ and do 
you come smiling before me as if you 
were glad to be rid of me ? ” 

Esmond would not be put off froni 
his good-humor, but told her the story 
of Tom Trett and his bankruptcy. “ I 
have been hankering after the grapes 
on the wall,” says he, “ and lost my 
temper because they were beyond 
my reach ; was there any wonder 
They ’re gone now, and another has 
them, — a taller man than your hum- 
ble servant has won them.” And the 
Colonel made his cousin a low bow. 

“ A taller man. Cousin Esmond ! ” 
says she. “A man of spirit would 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


22j 


h'^vo scaled the wall, sir, and seized 
the^n ! A man of courage would have 
fought for ^cm, not gaped for em.’^ 

“ A duke has but to gape and they 
drop into his mouth,’’ says Esmond, 
with another low bow. 

“ Yes, sir,” says she, “ a duke is a 
taller man than you. And why should 
I not be grateful to one such as his 
Grace, who gives me his heart and his 
great name 1 It is a great gift he hon- 
ors me with ; I know ’t is a bargain 
between us ; and I accept it, and will 
do my utmost to perform my part of 
it. ’T is no question of sighing and 
hilandering between a nobleman of 
is Grace’s age and a girl who hath 
little of that softness in her nature. 
Why should I not own that I am am- 
bitious, Harry Esmond ; and if it be 
no sin in a man to covet honor, why 
should a woman too not desire it? 
Shall I be frank with you, Harry, and 
say that if you had not been down on 
our knees, and so humble, you might 
ave fared better with me ? A woman 
of my spirit, cousin, is to be won by 
gallantry, and not by sighs and rueful 
faces. All the time you are worship- 
ing and singing hymns to me, I know 
very well 1 am no goddess, and grow 
weary of the incense. So would you 
have been weary of the goddess too, — 
when she Avas called Mrs. Esmond, 
and got out of humor because she had 
not pin-money enough, and was forced 
to go about in an old gown. Eh ! cous- 
in, a goddess in a mob-cap, that has 
to make her husband’s gruel, ceases to 
be divine, — I am sure of it. I should 
have been sulky and scolded ; and of 
all the proud Avretches in the Avorld 
Mr. Esmond is the proudest, let me tell 
him that. You never fall into a pas- 
sion ; but you neA-er forgive, I think. 
Had you been a great man, you might 
have been good-humored ; but being 
nobody, sir, you are too great a man 
for me ; and I ’m afraid of you, cous- 
in, — there ! and I Avon’t worship you, 
and you’ll never be happy except 
Avith a Avoman Avho AAdll. Why, after 
I belonged to you, and after one of 
my tantrums, you would have put the 
10 * 


pilloAv over my head some night, and 
smothered me, as the black man does 
the AVoman in the play that you ’re 
so fond of. What’s the creature’s 
name? — Desdemona. You Avould, 
you little black-dyed Othello ! ” 

“ I think I should, Beatrix,” says 
the Colonel. 

“And I Avant no such ending. I 
intend to live to be a hundred, and to 
go to ten thousand routs and balls, 
and to play cards every night of my 
life till the year eighteen hundred. 
And I like to be the first of my com- 
pany, sir ; and I like flattery and com- 
pliments, and you give me none ; and 
I like to be made to laugh, sir, and 
Avho ’s to laugh aiyour dismal face, I 
should like to knoAV ? and I like a 
coach-and-six or a coach- an d-eight ; 
and I like diamonds, and a new goAvn 
every Aveek ; and people to say, — 
‘ That ’s the Duchess — How well her 
Grace looks — Make Avay for Ma- 
dame I’Ambassadrice d’Angleterre — 
Call her Excellency’s peojfle ’ — that ’s 
what I like. And as for you, you 
Avant a Avoman to bring your slippers 
and cap, and to sit at your feet, and 
cry, ‘ O caro ! 0 bravo ! ’ Avhilst you 
read your Shakespeares and Miltons 
and stuff. Mamma would haAX been 
the wife for you, had you been a little 
older, though you look ten years older 
than she does, — you do, you glum- 
faced, blue-bearded little old man ! 
Yon might have sat, like Darby and 
Joan, and flattered each other ; and 
billed and cooed like a pair of old 
pigeons on a perch. I Avant my Avings 
and to use them, sir.” And she spread 
out her beautiful arms, as if indeed she 
could fly off like the pretty “ GaAvrie ” 
Avhom the man in the story Avas enam- 
ored of. 

“ And Avhat will your Peter Wilkins 
say to your flight?” says Esmond, 
Avho never admired this fair creature 
more than Avhen she rebelled and 
laughed at him. 

“A duchess knoAvs her place,” says 
she, Avith a laugh. “Why, I have a 
son already made for me, and thirty 
years old (my Lord Arran ), and four 
O 


226 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


daughters. How they will scold, and 
what a rage they will he in, when I 
come to take the head of the table ! 
But I give them only a month to be 
angry ; at the end of that time they 
ghall love me every one, and so shall 
Lord Arran, and so shall all his 
Grace’s Scots vassals and followers in 
die Highlands. I’m bent on it; and 
when I take a thing in my head, ’t is 
^one. His Grace is the greatest gen- 
Jeman in Europe, and I’ll try and 
jiake him happy ; and, when the King 
<;omes back, you may count on my 
^■^rotection. Cousin Esmond, — forcome 
Tf)ack the King will and shall ; and I ’ll 
bring him back from Versailles, if he 
comes under my hoop.” 

“ I hope the world wall make you 
happy, Beatrix,” says Esmond, with 
a sigh. “ You ’ll be Beatrix till you 
are my Lady Huchess, — will you 
not ? I shall then make your Grace 
my very lowest bow.” 

“None of these sighs and this 
satire, cousin,”’ she says. “ I take his 
• Grace’s great bounty thankfully, — 
yes, thankfully ; and will w'ear his 
honors becomingly. I do not say he 
hath touched my heart ; but he has 
my gratitude, obedience, admira- 
tion, — I have told him that, and no 
more; and with that his noble heart 
is content. I have told him all, — 
even the story of that poor creature 
that I was engaged to, — and that I 
could not love ; and I gladly gave his 
wwd back to him, and jumped for joy 
to get back my own. I am twenty- 
five years old.” 

“ Twenty-six, my dear,” says Es- 
mond. 

“ Twenty-five, sir, — I choose to be 
twenty-five; and in eight years no 
man hath ever touched my heart. 
Y^es, — you did once, for a little. Har- 
ry, when you came back after Lille, 
and engaging with that murderer 
Mohun, and saving Fratik’s life. I 
thought I could like you ; and mam- 
ma begged me hard, on her knees, and 
I did — for a day. But the old chill 
came over me, Henry, and the old 
fear of you and your meiancnoly ; and 


I w'as glad wdicn you went awmy, and 
engaged with my Lord Ashbuniham, 
that I might hear no more of you, 
that ’s the truth. Y'ou are too good for 
me, somehow. I could not make you 
happy, and should break my heart in 
trying, and not being able to love you. 
But if you had asked me when we 
gave you the sw^ord, you mijjht have 
had me, sir, and we both should have 
been miserable by this time. I talked 
with that silly lord all night just to 
vex you and mamma, and I succeeded, 
did n’t I How frankly w e can talk 
of these things ! It seems a thousand 
years ago : and, though we are here 
sitting in the same room, there is a 
great wall between us. My dear, 
kind, faithful, gloomy old cousin ! 
I can like now, and admire you too, 
sir, and say that you arc brave, and 
very kind, and very true, and a fine 
gentleman for all — for all your little 
mishap at your birth,” says she, W’ag- 
ging her arch head. 

“And noAv, sir,” says she, wfith a 
courtesy, “ w^e must have no more talk 
except when mamma is by, as his 
G race is with us ; for he docs not 
half like you, cousin, and is jealous 
as the black man in your favorite 
play.” 

Though the very kindness of the 
words stabbed Mr. Esmond w'ith the 
keenest pang, he did not show' his 
sense of the w'ound by any look of his 
(as Beatrix, indeed, afterwards owned 
to him), but said, with a perfect com- 
mand of himself and an easy smile, 
“ 'I'hc interview' must not end yet, my 
dear, until I have had my last word. 
Stay, here comes your mother” (in- 
deed she came in here Avith her SAvect 
anxious face, and Esmond going up 
kissed her hand respectfully). “ ]\ly 
dear lady may hear, too, the last_ 
Avoids, Avhich are no secrets, and are* 
only a parting benediction accom- 
panying a present for your marriage 
from an old gentleman your guar- 
dian ; fori feel as if I Avas the guardian 
of all the family, and an okL old fel- 
loAV that is fit to be the grandfather of 
you all ; and in this character let me 


THE HISTORY OF 

make my Lady Duclicss her wedding I 
present. They are tlie diamonds my 
father’s widow left me. I had thought 
Beatrix might have had them a year 
ago ; but they are good enough lor a 
duchess, though not bright enough for 
the handsomest woman in the world.” 
And he took the case out of his pock- 
et in which the jewels were, and pre- 
sented them to his cousin. 

She gave a cry of delight, for the 
stones were indeed very handsome, 
and of great value ; and the next min- 
ute 'the necklace was where Belin- 
da’s cross is in Mr. Pope’s admirable 
poem, and glittering on the wliitest 
and most perfectly shaped neck in all 
England. 

The girl’s delight at receiving these 
trinkets was so great, that after rush- 
ing to the looking-glass and examin- 
ing the effect they produced upon that 
fair neck which they surrounded, Bea- 
trix Avas running back with her arms 
extended, and Avas perhaps for paying 
her cousin Avith a price, that he Avould 
have liked no doubt to receive from 
those beautiful rosy lips of hers, but at 
this moment the door opened, and his 
Grace the bridegroom elect Avas an- 
nounced. 

He looked very black upon Mr. 
Esmond, to Avhom he made a very 
loAv boAV indeed, and kissed the hand 
of each lady in his most ceremonious 
manner. He had come in his chair 
from the palace hard by, and wore his 
two stars of the Garter and the This- 
tle. 

“ Look, my Lord Duke,” says Mis- 
tress Beatrix, advancing to him, and 
shoAving the diamonds on her breast. 

“ Diamonds,’^ says his Grace. 

“ Hm ! they seem pretty.” 

“ They are a present on my mar- 
riage,” says Beatrix. 

“ From her Majesty ? ” asks the 
Duke. “ The Queen is very good.” 

“From my cousin Henry, — from 
our cousin Henry,” — cry both the la- 
dies in a breath. 

“ I have not the honor of knowing 
the gentleman. I thought that my 
Lord Castlewood had no brother: 


^ HENRY ESMOND. 227 

I and that on your Ladyship's side 
there Avere no ncjiheAvs.” 

“From our cousin, Colonel Henry 
Esmond, my Lord,” says Beatrix, 
taking the Colonel’s baud very brave- 
ly, — “ Avho Avas left guardian to us 
by our father, and Avho has a hundred 
times shoAvn his love and friendship 
for our family.” 

“ The Duchess of Hamilton re- 
ceives no diamonds but from her hus- 
band, madam,” says the Duke, — 
“ may I pray you to restore these to 
Mr. Esmond ? ” 

“ Beatrix Esmond may receiA'e a 
present from our kinsman and bene- 
factor, my Lord Duke,” says Lady 
CastleAvood, Avith an air of great dig- 
nity. “ She is my daughter yet : and 
if her mother sanctions the gift, — no 
one else hath the right to question it.” 

“ Kinsman and benefactor ! ” says 
the Duke. “ I knoAv of no kinstnan : 
and I do not choose that ray Avife 
should have for benefactor a — ” 

“ My Lord ! ” says Colonel Es- 
mond. 

“ I am not here to handy Avords,” 
says his Grace : “ frankly 1 tell you 
that your visits to this house are too 
frequent, and that I choose no pres- 
ents for the Duchess of Hamilton from 
gentlemen that bear a name they have 
no right to.” 

“ My Lord ! ” breaks out Lady Cas- 
tleAvood,/' Mr. Esmond hath the best 
right to that name of any man in the 
Avorld : and ’t is as old and as honora- 
ble as your Grace’s.” 

My Lord Duke smiled, and looked 
as if Lady Castlewood Avas mad, that 
Avas so talking to him. 

“ If I called him benefactor,” said 
my mistress, “it is because he has 
been so to us, — yes, the noblest, the 
truest, the bravest, the dearest of ben- 
efactors. He Avould luwe saved my 
husband’s life from Mohun’s SAA'ord. 
He did saA'c my boy’s, and defended 
him from that villain. Are these no 
benefits ? ” 

“ I ask Colonel Esmond’s pardon,” 
says his Grace, if possible more 
haughty than before. “ I Avould say 


228 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


not a word that should give him offence, 
and tliank him for his kindness to your 
Ladyship’s family. My Lord Mohun 
and I are connected, you know, by 
marriage, — though neither by blood 
nor friendship ; but I must repeat 
what I said, that my wife can re- 
ceive no presents from Colonel Es- 
moud.” 

“ My daughter may receive pres- 
ents fromtlie Head of our House : my 
daughter may thankfully take kind- 
ness from her father’s, her mother’s, 
her brother’s dearest friend ; and be 
grateful for one more benefit besides 
the thousand we owe him,” cries Lady 
Esmond. “ Wluit is a string of dia- 
mond stones compared to that affec- 
tion he liath given us, — our dearest pre- 
server and benefactor 1 We owe liim 
not only Frank’s life, but our all, — 
yes, our all,” says my mistress, with a 
heightened color and a trembling voice. 
“ The title we bear is his, if he would 
claim it. ’T is we who have no right 
to our name : not he that ’s too great 
for it. He sacrificed his nam6 at my 
dying lord’s bedside, — sacrificed it 
to my orphan children ; gave up rank 
and honor because he loved us so no- 
bly. His father was Viscount of Cas- 
tlewood and Marquis of Esmond be- 
fore him ; and he is his father’s lawful 
son and true heir, and we are the re- 
cipients of his bounty, and he the 
chief of a house that ’s as old as your 
own. And if he is content to forego 
his name that my child may bear it, 
we love him and honor him and bless 
him under whatever name he bears,” 
— and here the fond and affectionate 
creature would have knelt to Esmond 
again, but that he prevented her ; and 
Beatrix, running up to her with a pale 
face and a cry of alarm, embraced her 
and said, “ Mother, what is this f ” 

“ ’ T is a family secret, my Lord 
I^uke,” says Colonel Esmond : “ poor 
Beatrix knew nothing of it; nor did 
my Lady till a year ago. And I have 
as good a right to resign my title as 
your Grace’s mother to abdicate hers 
to you.” 

“ I should have told everything to 


I the Duke of Hamilton,” said my mis- 
tress, “ had his Grace applied to me 
for my daughter’s hand, and not to 
Beatrix. 1 should have spoken with 
you this very day in private, my 
Lord, had not your words brought 
about this sudden explanation, — and 
now ’t is fit Beatrix should hear it ; 
and know, as 1 Avould have all the 
world know, what we owe to our kins- 
man and patron.” 

And then in her touching way, and 
having hold of her daughter’s hand, 
and speaking to her rather than my 
Lord i)uke. Lady CastlcAvood told the 
story which you know already, — 
lauding up to the skies her kinsman’s 
behavior. On his side Mr. Esmond 
explained the reasons that seemed 
quite sufficiently cogent with him, 
Avhy the succession in the family, as at 
present it stood, should not be dis- 
turbed ; and he should remain as he 
was. Colonel Esmond. 

“ And Marquis of Esmond, my 
Lord,” says his Grace, with alow bow. 
“Permit me to ask your Lordship’s 
pardon for words that were uttered in 
ignorance; and to beg for the favor 
of your fi-iendship. To be allied to 
you, sir, must be an honor under 
whatever name you are known ” (so 
his Grace was pleased to say) ; “and 
in return for the splendid present you 
make my wife, your kinswoman, I 
hope you will please to command any 
service that James Douglas can per- 
form. I shall never be easy until I 
repay you a part of my obligations 
at least ; and ere very long, and with 
the mission her Majesty hath given 
me,” says the Duke, “ that may per- 
haps be in my power. I shall esteem 
it as a favor, my Lord, if Colonel Es- 
mond will give away the bride.” 

“ And if he will take the usual 
payment in advance, he is welcome,” 
says Beatrix, stepping up to him ; 
and, as Esmond kissed her, she whis- 
pered, “ O, why did n’t I know you 
before ? ” 

My Lord Duke was as hot as a 
flame at this salute, but said never a 
word; Beatrix made him a proud 


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THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


229 


courtesj, and the two ladies quitted 
the room together. 

“ When does your Excelleney go 
for Paris ? asks Colonel Esmond. 

“As soon after the ceremony as 
may be,” his Grace answered. “ 'T is 
fixed for the first of December: it 
cannot be sooner. The equipage 
will not be ready till then. The 
Queen intends the embassy should be 
very grand, — and I have law busi- 
ness to settle. That ill-omened Mo- 
hun has come, or is coming, to Lon- 
don again : we are in a lawsuit about 
my late Lord Gerard’s property ; and 
he hath sent to me to meet him.” 

— ♦— 

CHAPTER V. 

MOHUN APPEARS POR THE LAST 
TIME IN THIS HISTORY. 

Besides my Lord Duke of Ham- 
ilton and Brandon, who for family 
reasons had kindly promised his 
protection and patronage to Colonel 
Esmond, he had other great friends 
in power now, both able and willing 
to assist him, and he might, with 
such allies, look forward to as fortu- 
nate advancement in eivil life at home 
as he had got rapid promotion abroad. 
His Grace was magnanimous enough 
to offer to take Mr. Esmond as secre- 
tary on his Paris embassy, but no 
doubt he intended that proposal 
should be rejected ; at any rate Es- 
mond could not bear the thoughts of 
attending his mistress farther than 
the church- door after her marriage, 
and so declined that offer which his 
generous rival made him. 

Other gentlemen in power were 
liberal at least of compliments and 
promises to Colonel Esmond. Mr. 
Harley, now become my Lord Oxford 
and Mortimer, and installed Knight 
of the Garter on the same day as his 
Grace of Hamilton had received t!ie 
same honor, sent to the Colonel to 
say that a seat in Parliament should 
be at his disposal presently, and Mr. 
St. John held out many flattering 


hopes of advancement to the Colonel 
when he should enter the House. 
Esmond’s friends were all successful, 
and the most successful and trium- 
phant of all Avas his dear old com- 
mander, General Webb, who was now 
appointed Lieutenant-General of the 
Land Forces, and reeeived with par- 
ticular honor by the Ministry, by the 
Queen, and the people out of doors, 
who huzzaed the brave chief Avhen 
they used to see him in his chariot 
going to the House or to the Draw- 
ing-room, or hobbling on foot to his 
coach from St. Stephen’s upon his 
glorious old crutch and stick, and 
cheered him as loud as they had ever 
done Marlborough. 

That great Duke was utterly dis- 
graced; and honest old Webb dated 
all his Grace’s misfortunes from 
Wynendael, and vowed that Fate 
served the traitor right. Duehess 
Sarah had also gone to ruin ; she had 
been forced to give up her keys, and 
her places, and her pensions : — “ Ah, 
ah ! ” says Webb, “ she would have 
locked up three millions of French 
crowns with her keys had I but 
been knocked on the head, but I 
stopped that convoy at Wynendael.” 
Our enemy Cardonnel was turned out 
of the House of Commons (along 
with Mr. Walpole) for malversation 
of public money. Cadogan lost his 
place of Lieutenant of the Tower. 
Marlborough’s daughters resigned 
their posts of ladies of the bedcham- 
ber ; and so complete was the Duke’s 
disgrace, that his son-in-law. Lord 
Bridgewater, was absolutely obliged 
to give up his lodgings at St. James’s, 
and had his half-pension, as Master 
of the Horse, taken away. Bitt I 
think the lowest depth of Marlbor- 
ough’s fall Avas Avhen he humbly sent 
to ask General Webb Avhen be might 
Avait upon him : he avIio had com- 
manded the stout old General, who 
had injured him and sneered at him, 
Avho had kept him dangling in his 
antechamber, who could not even 
after his great service condescend to 
write him a letter in his own hand. 


230 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


The nation was as eager for peace as 
ever it had been hot for war. The 
Prince of Savoy came amongst us, 
had his audience of the Queen, and 
got his famous Sword of Honor, and 
strove with all his force to form a 
Whig party together, to bring over 
the young Prince of Hanover, — to 
do anything which might prolong 
the war, aiid consummate the ruin of 
the old sovereign whom he hated so 
implacably. But the nation was tired 
of the struggle ; so comjtlctely wea- 
ried of it that not even our defeat at 
Denain could rouse us into any anger, 
though such an action so lost two 
years before would have set all Eng- 
land in a fury. ■’T was easy to sec 
that the great Marlborough was not 
wdth the army. Eugene was obliged 
to fall back in a rage, and forego the 
dazzling revenge of his life. was 
in vain the Duke’s side asked, 
“ Would we suffer our arms to be in- 
sulted ? Would we not send back the 
only champion who could repair our 
honor ? ” The nation had had its 
bellyful of fighting ; nor could taunts 
or outcries goad up our Britons any 
more. 

For a statesman that was always 
prating of liberty, and had the grand- 
est philosophic maxims in his mouth, 
it must be owned that Mr. St. John 
sometimes rather acted like a Turkish 
than a Greek philosopher, and espe- 
cially fell foul of one unfortunate set 
of men, the men of letters, with a 
tyranny a little extraordinary in a 
man who professed to respect their 
calling so much. The literary con- 
troversy at this time was very bitter, 
the Government side was the winning 
one, the popular one, and I think 
might have been a mercifirl one. 
’T was natural that the opposition 
should be peevish and cry out ; some 
men did so from their hearts, admir- 
ing the Duke of Marlborough’s pro- 
digious talents, and deploring the dis- 
grace of the greatest general the world 
ever knew: ’twas the stomach that 
caused other patriots to grumble, and 
such men cried out because they were 


poor, and paid to do so. Against 
these my Lord Bolingbrokc never 
showed the slightest mercy, whipping 
a dozen into prison or into the pillory 
without the least commiseration. 

From having been a man of arms 
Mr. Esmond had now come to be a 
man of letters, but on a safer side 
than that in which the above-cited 
poor fellows ventured their liberties 
and ears. There was no danger on 
ours, Avhich w'as the winning side ; 
besides, Mr. EvSmond pleased himself 
by thinking that he writ like a gen- 
tleman if he did not always succeed 
as a wit. 

Of the famous wks of that age, who 
have rendered Queen Anne’s reign il- 
lustrious, and whose "works will be in 
all Englishmen’s hands in ages yet to 
come. Mr. Esmond saw many, but at 
public places chiefly ; never having a 
great intimacy with any of them, ex- 
cept with honest Dick Steele and Mr. 
Addison, -who parted company with 
Esmond, however, -when that gentle- 
man became a declared Tory, and 
lived on close terms with the leading 
persons of that party. Addison kept 
himself to a few friends, and very 
rarely opened himself except in their 
company. A man more upright and 
conscientious than he it was not pos- 
sible to find in public life, and one 
whose conversation was so various, 
easy, and delightful. Writing now 
in my mature years, I own that I 
think Addison’s politics were the 
right, and w'ere my time to come 
over again, I would be a Whig in 
England and not a Tory; but with 
people that take a side in politics, 
’t is men rather than principles that 
commonly bind them. A kindness 
or a slight puts a man under one flag 
or the other, and he marches with it 
to the end of the campaign. Es- 
mond’s master in w'ar was injured by 
Marlborough, and hated him : and 
the lieutenant fought the quarrels of 
his leader. Webb coming to Lon- 
don was used as a weapon by IMarl- 
borough’s enemies (and true steel he 
was, that honest chief) : nor was his 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ES^IOND. 


231 


aide-de-camp, Mr. Esmond, an nn- 
faitliful or nuwortliy partisan. ’T is 
strange liere, and on a foreign soil, 
and in a land that is independent in 
all but the name (for that the North 
American colonies shall remain de- 
pendants on yonder little island for 
twenty years more, I never can think), 
to remember how the nation at home 
seemed to give itself up to the domi- 
nation of one or other aristocratic 
party, and took a Hanoverian king, 
or a French one, according as either 
prevailed. And while the Tories, the 
October Club gentlemen, the High 
Church parsons that held by the 
Church of England, were for having 
a Papist king, for whom many of 
their Scottish and English leaders, 
firm churchmen all, laid down their 
lives with admirable loyalty and de- 
votion ; they were governed by men 
who had notoriously no religion at 
all, but used it as they would use any 
opinion for the purpose of forwarding 
their own ambition. The Whigs, 
on the other hand, who professed 
attachment to religion and liberty 
loo, were comijelled to send to Hol- 
land or Hanover for a monarch 
around whom they could, rally. A 
strange series of compromises is that 
English History ; compromise of 
principle, compromise of party, com- 
pi-omise of worship ! The lovers of 
English freedom and independence 
submitted tlieir religious consciences 
to an Act of Parliament ; could not 
consolidate their liberty without send- 
ing to Zell or the Hague for a king 
to live under; and could not find 
amongst the proudest people in the 
world a man speaking their own lan- 
guage, and understanding their laws, 
to govern them. The Tory and 
High Church patriots were ready to 
die in defence of a Papist family that 
had sold us to France ; the great 
Wliig nobles, the sturdy republican 
recusants who had cut off Charles 
Stuart’s head for treason, were fain 
to accept a king whose title came to 
him through a royal grandmother, 
whose own royal grandmother’s head 


had fallen under Qnecn Bess’s hatch- 
et. And our proud English nobles 
sent to a petty German town for a 
monarch to come and reign in Lon- 
don ; and our prelates kissed the ugly 
hands of his Dutch mistresses, and 
thought it no dishonor. In England 
you can but belong to one party or 
t’other, and you take the house you 
live in with all its encumbrances]^ its 
retainers, its antique discomfoi ts, and 
ruins even ; you patch up, but you 
never build up anew. Will wc of 
the new world submit much longer, 
even nominally, to this ancient Brit- 
ish superstition ? There are signs 
of the times Avhich make me think 
that erelong wc shall care as little 
about King George here, and peers 
temporal and peers spiritual, as we 
do for King Canute or the Druids. 

This chapter began about the wits, 
my grandson may say, and hath wan- 
dered very far from their company. The 
pleasantest of the wits I knew were 
the Doctors Garth and Arbuthnot, 
and Mr. Gay, tlie author of ‘‘ Trivia,” 
the most charming kind soul that 
ever laughed at a joke or cracked a 
bottle. Mr. Prior 1 saw, and he was 
the earthen pot swimming with the 
pots of brass down the stream, and 
always and justly frightened lest he 
should break in the voyage. I met 
him both at London and Paris, where 
he was performing ])iteous congees to 
the Duke of Shrewsbury, not having 
courage to support the dignity which 
his undeniable genius and talent had 
won him, and writing coaxing letters 
to Secretary St. John, and thinking 
about his jdatc and his place, and 
what on earth should become of him 
should his party go out. The famous 
Mr. Congreve I saw a dozen of times 
at Button’s, a splendid wreck of 
a man, magnificently attired, and 
though gouty, and almost blind, 
bearing a brave face against fortune. 

The great Mr. Pope (of whose ])ro- 
digious genius I have no words to 
express my admiration) was quite a 
puny lad at this time, appearing 
seldom in public places. There were 


232 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


hundreds of men, wits, and pretty 
fello\/s frequenting the theatres and 
coffee-houses of tliat day — wliom 
“ nunc perscribere longum est/’ In- 
deed I think the most brilliant of 
that sort I ever saw was not till fif- 
teen years afterwards, when I paid 
my last visit in England, and met 
young Harry E'ielding, son of the 
Fielding that served in Spain and 
afterwards in Edanders with us, and 
who for fun and humor seemed to 
top them all. As for the famous 
Dr. Swift, I can say of him, “ Vidi 
tantum.’-' He was in London all 
these years up to the death of the 
Queen ; and in a hundred public 
places where I saw him, but no more ; 
he never missed Court of a Sunday, 
where once or twice he was pointed 
out to your grandfather. He would 
have sought me out eagerly enough 
had I been a great man with a title 
to my name, or a star on my coat. 
At Court the Doctor had no eyes but 
for the very greatest. Lord Treas- 
urer and St. John used to call him 
Jonathan, and they paid him with 
this cheap coin for the service they 
took of him. He writ their lampoons, 
fought their enemies, flogged and 
bullied in their service, and it must 
be owned with a consummate skill 
and fierceness. 'T is said he hath 
lost his intellect now, and forgotten 
his wrongs and his rage against 
mankind. I have always thought 
of him and of Marlborough as the 
two greatest men of that age. I 
have read his books (who doth not 
know them?) here in our calm woods, 
and imagine a giant to m3"self as I 
think of him, a lonely fallen Prome- 
theus, groaning as the vulture tears 
him. Prometheus I saw, but when 
first I ever had any words with him, 
the oiant stepped out of a sedan chair 
in the Poultry, whither he had come 
with a tipsy Irish servant parading 
before him, Avho announced him, 
bawling out his Reverence’s name, 
whilst his master below was as yet 
haggling with the chairman. I dis- 
liked this Sir. Swift, and heard many 


a story about him, of his conduct to 
men, and his words to women. He 
could flatter the great as much as he 
could bully the weak ; and Sir. Es- 
mond, being younger and hotter in 
that day than now, was determined, 
should he ever meet this dragon, not 
to run away from his teeth and his 
fire. 

Men have all sorts of motives which 
carry them onwards in life, and arc 
driven into acts of desperation, or it 
may be of distinction, Irom a hundred 
different causes. There was one com- 
rade of Esmond’s, an honest little 
Irish lieutenant of Handyside’s, who 
owed so much money to a camp sut- 
ler, that he began to make love to the 
man’s daughter, intending to pay his 
debt that way ; and at the battle of 
Malplaquet, flying away from the 
debt and lady too, he rushed so des- 
perately on the ETench lines, that he 
got his company ; and came a Cap- 
tain out of the action, and had to 
marry the sutler’s daughter after all, 
who brought him his cancelled debt 
to her father as poor Roger’s fortune ; 
To run out of the reach of bill and 
marriage, he ran on the enemy’s 
pikes ; and as these did not kill him 
he was thrown back upon t’other 
horn of his dilemma. Our great 
Duke at the same battle was fighting, 
not the French, but the Tories in 
England ; and risking his life and 
the army’s, not for his country but 
for his pay and places ; and for fear 
of his wife at home, that only being 
in life whom he dreaded. I have 
asked about men in my own com- 
pany (new drafts of poor country 
boys were perpetually coming over to 
us during the wars, and brought from 
the ploughshare to the sword), and 
found that a half of them under the 
flags were driven thither on account 
of a woman : one fellow was jilted by 
his mistress and took the shilling in 
despair ; another jilted the girl, ami 
fled from her and the parish to the 
tents where the law could not disturb 
him. Why go on particularizing 1 
What can the sons of Adam and Eve 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


233 


expect, but to continue in that course 
of love and trouble their father and 
mother set out on ? O my grand- 
son ! l am drawing nigh to the end 
of that period of my history, when I 
was acquainted with the great world 
of England and Europe ; my years 
are past the Hebrew poet’s limit, and 
I say unto thee, all my troubles and 
joys too, for that matter, have come 
from a woman ; as thine will when 
thy destined course begins. ’T was a 
woman that made a soldier of me, 
that set me intriguing afterwards ; I 
believe I would have spun smocks for 
her had she so bidden me ; what 
strength I had in my head I would 
have given her ; hath not every man 
in his degree had his Omphale and 
Delilah ? Mine befooled me on the 
banks of the Thames, and in dear 
old England ; thou mayest find 
thine own by Rappahannock. 

To please that woman then I tried 
to distinguish myself as a soldier, and 
afterwards as a wit and a politician; 
as to please another I would have put 
on a black cassock and a pair of bands, 
and had done so but that a superior 
fate intervened to defeat that project. 
And I say, I think the. world is like 
Captain Esmond’s company I spoke 
of anon ; and could you see every 
man’s career in life, you would find a 
woman clogging him ; or clinging 
round his march and stopping him ; 
or cheering him and goading him ; 
or beckoning him out of her chariot, 
so that he goes up to her, and leaves 
the race to be run without him ; or 
bringing him the apple, and saying 
“ Eat ” ; or fetching him the daggers 
and whispering “ Kill ! yonder lies 
Duncan, and a crown, and an oppor- 
tunity.” 

Your grandfather fought with 
more effect as a politician than as a 
wit ; and having private animosi- 
ties and grievances of his own and 
his General’s against the great 
Duke in command of the army, and 
more information on military mat- 
ters than most writers, who had nev- 
er seen beyond the fire of a tobacco 


pipe at “ Wills’s,” he was enabled 
to do good sendee for that cause 
which he embarked in, and for Mr. 
St. John and his party. Hut he dis- 
dained the abuse in which some of 
the Tory writers indulged ; for in- 
stance, Dr. Swift, who actually chose 
to doubt the Duke of Marlborough’s 
courage, and was pleased to hint that 
his Grace’s military capacity was 
doubtful : nor were Esmond’s perform- 
ances worse for the effect they were 
intended to produce (though no 
doubt they could not injure the Duke 
of Marlborough nearly so much in the 
public eyes as the malignant attacks 
of Su’ift did, which were carefully 
directed so as to blacken and degrade 
him), because they were writ openly 
and fairly by Mr. Esmond, who made 
no disguise of them, who was now 
out of the army, and who never 
attacked the prodigious courage and 
talents, only the selfishness and ra- 
pacity, of the chief. 

The Colonel then, having writ a 
paper for one of the Tory journals, 
called the Post-Boy (a letter upon 
Bouchain, that the town talked about 
for two whole days, when the appear- 
ance of an Italian singer supplied a 
fresh subject for conversation), and 
having business at the Exchange, 
where Mistress Beatrix wanted a pair 
of gloves or a fan very likely, Esmond 
went to correct his paper, and was 
sitting at the printer’s, Avhen the fa- 
mous Doctor Swift came in, his Irish 
fellow AAdth him tliat used to walk be- 
fore his chair, and bawled out his 
master’s name with great dignity. 

Mr. Esmond was waiting for the 
printer too, whose wife had gone to 
the tavern to fetch him, and was mean- 
time engaged in drawing a picture of 
a soldier on horseback for a dirty lit- 
tle pretty boy of the printer’s Avife, 
Avhom she had left behind her. 

“ I presume you are the editor of 
the Post-Boy, sir? ” says the Doctor, 
in a grating voice that had an Irish 
tAvang ; and he looked at the Colonel 
from under his tAvo bushy eyebroAvs 
with a pair of very clear blue eyes. 


234 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


His complexion was muddy, liis fig- 
ure rather fat, his chin double. He 
wore a shabby cassock, and a shabby 
hat over his black wig, and he pulled 
out a great gold watch, at which he 
looks very fierce. 

“ I am but a contributor. Doctor 
SAvift,” says Esmond, Avith the little 
boy still on his knee. He was sitting 
Avith his back in the AvindoAV, so that 
the Doctor could not see him. 

“ Who told you 1 Avas Doctor 
SAvift ? says the Doctor, eying the 
other very haughtily. 

“ Your Keverence’s valet bawled 
out your name,” says the Colonel. 
“ I should judge you brought him 
from Ireland ? " 

“And pray, sir, Avhat right ha\’e 
you to judge whether my servant 
came from Ireland or no ? I Avant to 
speak Avith your employer, Mr. Leach. 
1 ^11 thank ye go fetch "him.” 

“ Where "s your papa. Tommy ” 
asks the Colonel of the child, a smutty 
little Avretch in a frock. 

Instead of ansAvering, the child be- 
gins to cry ; the Doctor’s appearance 
had no doubt frightened the poor lit- 
tle imp. 

“ Send that squalling little brat 
about his business, and do what I bid 
ye, sir,” says the Doctor. 

“ I must finish the picture first for 
Tommy,” says the Colonel, laughing. 
“ Here, Tommy, Avill you have your 
Pandour Avith whiskers or Avithout ? ” 

“ Whisters,” says Tommy, quite 
intent on the picture. 

“ Who the dcAul are ye, sir ? ” cries 
the Doctor ; “ are ye a printer’s man 
or are ye not ? ” he pronounced it like 
naught. 

“ Your Reverence need n’t raise the 
Devil to ask Avho I am,” says Colo- 
nel Esmond. “ Did you ever hear of 
Doctor Eaustus, little Tommy ? or 
Friar Bacon, Avho invented gunpoAV- 
der an:l s?t the ’I'liames on fire 1 ” 

Mr. SAvift turned quite red, almost 
purple. “ I did not intend any of- 
fence, sir,” says he. 

“ I dare say, sir, you offended Avith- 
out meaning,” says the other, dryly. 


“ Who arc ye, sir ? Do you know 
AA’ho I am, sir? You are one of the 
pack of Grub Street scribblers that 
my friend Mr. Secretary hath laid by 
the heels. Hoav dare ye, sir, speak to 
me in this tone ? ” cries the Doctor, 
in a great fume. 

“I beg your honor’s humble par- 
don, if 1 have offended your honor,” 
says Esmond, in a tone of great hu- 
mility. “ Rather than be sent to the 
Compter, or be put in the pillory, 
there ’s nothing I Avould n’t do. But 
Mrs. Leach, the printer’s lady, told ; 
me to mind Tommy Avhilst she Avent 
for her husband to the tavern, and 1 
dare n’t leaA^e the child lest he should ' 
fall into the fire ;.but if your RcA^er- 
ence Avill hold him — ”, : 

“ I take the little beast ! ” says the 
Doctor, starting back. “ I am en- 
gaged to your betters, felloAv. Tell 
Sir. Leach that Avhen he makes an 
appointment Avith Dr. SAvift, he had 
best keep it, do ye hear ? And keep 
a respectful tongue in your head, sir, | 
Avhen you address a person like me.” [ 

“ I ’m but a poor broken-doAvn sol- 
dier,” says the Colonel, “ and I ’ve ^ 
seen better daA'S, though I am forced ^ 
noAv to turn my hand to Avriting. We 
can’t help our late, sir.” 

“ ITou ’re the person that Mr. Leach 
hath spoken to me of, I presume. 
Have the goodness to speak civilly ^ 
when you are spoken to, — and tell ■ 
Leach to call at my lodgings in Bury 
Street, and bring the papers Avith him 
to-night at ten o’clock. And the 
next time you see me, you’ll know 
me, and be civil, Mr. Kemp.” 

Poor Kemp, Avho had been a lieu- 
tenant at the beginning of the Avar, 
and fallen into misfortune, Avas the 
Avriter of the Post-Bpy, and noAv took 
honest Mr. Leach’s pay in place of 
her Majesty’s. Esmond had seen 
this gentleman, and a A'cry ingenious, 
hard-Avorking, honest felloAv he Avas, 
toiling to give bread to a great fam- 
ily, and Avatching up many a long 
Avinter night to keep the Avolf from 
his door. And Mr. St. John, Avho 
had liberty ahvays on his tongue, had 


THE IIISTOHY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


235 


just sent a dozen of the opposition 
writers into prison, and one actually 
into the pillory, for what he called 
libels, but libels not half so violent as 
those writ on our side. With regard 
to this very piece of tyranny, Esmond 
had remonstrated strongly with the 
Secretary, Avho laughed and said the 
rascals were served quite right ; and 
told Esmond a joke of Swift's regard- 
ing the matter. Nay, more, this 
Irishman, when St. John was about 
to pardon a poor Avrctch condemned 
to death for rape, absolutely prevent- 
ed the Secretary from exercising this 
act of good-nature, and boasted that 
he had had the man hanged , and 
great as the Doctor’s genius might 
be, and splendid his ability, Esmond 
for one would affect no love for 
him, and never desired to make his 
acquaintance. The Doctor was 
at Court every Sunday assiduously 
enough, a place the Colonel frequent- 
ed but rarely, though he had a great 
inducement to go there in the person 
of a fair maid of honor of her Majes- 
ty’s ; and the airs and patronage Mr. 
Swift gave himself, forgetting gentle- 
men of his country whom he knew 
perfectly, his loud talk at once inso- 
lent and servile, nay, perhaps his very 
intimacy with Lord Treasurer and 
the Secretary, who indulged all his 
freaks and called him Jonathan, you 
may be sure, were remarked by many 
a person of whom the proud priest 
himself took no note, during that 
time of his vanity and triumph. 

’T was but three days after the 15th 
of November, 1712 (Esmond minds 
him well of the date), that he Avent 
by invitation to dine Avith his General, 
the foot of Avhosb table he used to 
take on these festiv’e occasions, as he 
had done at many a board, hard and 
plentiful, during the campaign. This 
was a great feast, and of the latter 
sort ; the honest old gentleman loved 
to treat his friends splendidly : his 
Grace of Ormonde, before he joined 
his army as generalissimo, my Lord 
Viscount Bolingbroke, one of her 
Majesty’s Secretaries of State, my 


Lord Orkney, that had serA^ed Avith 
us abroad, being of the party. His 
Grace of Hamilton, Master of the 
Ordnance, and in Avhose honor the 
feast had been given, upon his ap- 
proaching departure as Ambassador 
to Paris, had sent an excuse to General 
Webb at tAvo o’clock, but an hour be- 
fore the dinner : nothing but the most 
immediate business, his Grace said, 
should have prevented him having 
the pleasure of drinking a parting 
glass to the health of General Webb. 
His absence disappointed Esmond’s 
old chief, Avho suffered much from his 
Avounds besides ; and though the com- 
pany Avas grand, it was rather gloomy. 
ISt. John came last, and brought a 
friend Avith him : “ I ’m sure,” says 
my General, boAving very politely, 
“ my table hath always a place for 
Dr. Swift.” 

Mr. Esmond Avent up to the Doctor 
Avith a bow and a smile : — “I gave 
Dr. Swift’s message,” says he, “to 
the printer : I hope he brought your 
pamphlet to your lodgings in time.” 
Indeed poor Leach had come to his 
house very soon after the Doctor left 
it, being brought aAvay rather tipsy 
from the taA^ern by his thrifty wife; 
and he talked of Cou^n Swift in 
a maudlin Avay, thougn of course 
Mr. Esmond did not allude to this 
relationship. The Doctor scoAvled, 
blushed, and aa'us much confused, and 
said scarce a Avord during the Avhole 
of dinner. A very little stone Avill 
sometimes knock down these Goliaths 
of wit; and this one Avas often dis- 
comfited when met by a man of any 
spirit ; he took his place sulkily, put 
Avater in his Avine that the others 
drank plentifully, and scarce said a 
word. 

The talk was about the affairs of 
the day, or rather about persons than 
affairs : my Lady Marlborough’s fury, 
her daughters in old clothes and mob- 
caps looking out from their Avindows 
and seeing the company pass to the 
DraAving-room ; the gentleman-usher’s 
horror Avhen the Prince of Savoy Avas 
introduced to her Majesty in a tie-Avig, 


236 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


no man out of a full-bottomed peri- 
wig ever having kissed the Royal 
hand before ; about the JVIohawks and 
the damage they were doing, rushing 
through the town, killing and mur- 
dering. Some one said the ill-omened 
face of Mohun had been seen at the 
theatre the night before, and Macart- 
ney and Meredith Avith him. Meant 
to "be a feast, the meeting, in spite of 
drink and talk, was as dismal as a 
funeral. Every topic started subsided 
into gloom. His Grace of Ormonde 
Avent aAvay because the conversation 
got upon benain, Avherc he had been 
defeated in the last campaign. Es- 
mond’s General Avas affected at the 
allusion to this action too, for his 
comrade of Wyncndael, the Count of 
Nassau Woudenbourg, had been slain 
there. Mr. SAvift, Avhen Esmond 
pledged him, said he drank no Avine, 
and took his hat from the peg and 
Avent aAA'ay, beckoning my Lord Bo- 
lingbroke to folloAv him ; but the other 
bade him take his chariot and save 
his coach-hire, — he had to speak Avith 
Colonel Esmond ; and Avhen the rest 
of the company AvitlidrcAv to cards, 
these tAvo remained behind in the 
dark. 

Bolingbroke ahvays spoke freely 
AA’hen he had drunk freely. Elis 
enemies could get any secret out of 
him in that condition ; women Avere 
CA^en employed to ply him, and take 
his Avords doAvn. I haA-e heard that 
my Lord Stair, three years after, 
when the Secretary fled to France 
and became the Pretender’s Minister, 
got all the information he Avanted by 
putting female spies oA'er St. John in 
his cups. He spoke freely noAv : — 
“Jonathan knows nothing of this for 
certain, though he suspects it, and by 
George, Webb Avill take an Arch- 
bishopric, and Jonathan a — no — 
damme — Jonathan Avill take an Arch- 
bishopric from James, I Avarrant me, 
gladly enough. Your Duke hath the 
string of the Avhole matter in his 
hand,” the Secretary Avent on. “ We 
have that which Avill force Marl- 
borough to keep his distance, and he 


goes out of London in a fortnight. 
Prior hath his business ; he left me 
this morning, and mark me, Harry, 
should fate carry off our august, our 
beloved, our most gouty and plethoric 
Queen, and Defender of the Faith, la 
bonne cause triomphera. A la sante 
de la bonne cause ! Everything good 
comes from France. Wine comes 
from France ; give us another bum])cr 
to the bonne cause.” We drank it 
together. 

“ Will the bonne cause turn Prot- 
estant ? ” asked Mr. Esmond. 

“ No, hangit,” says the other, “ he ’ll 
defend our Faith as in duty bound, 
but he ’ll stick by his OAvn. The 
Hind and the Panther shall run in 
the same car, by Jove. Righteous- 
ness and peace shall kiss each oth- 
er : and Ave ’ll haA^e Father Massillon 
to AAmlk doAvn the aisle of St. Paul’s, 
cheek by joAvl Avith Dr. Sachcverel. 
Give us more Avine ; here ’s a health 
to the bonne cause, kneeling — dam- 
me, let ’s drink it kneeling. ” He Avas 
quite flushed and Avild Avith Avine as 
he Avas talking. 

“ And suppose,” says Esmond, who 
ahvays had this gloomy apprehension, 
“ the bonne cause should giA^e us up 
to the French, as his father and uncle 
did before him ? ” 

“ Give us up to the French ! ” starts 
up Bolingbroke ; “is there any Eng- 
lish gentleman that fears that 1 You 
AA’ho haA^e seen Blenheim and Ram- 
illies, afraid of the French ! Your 
ancestors and mine, and brave old 
Webb’s yonder, have met them in a 
hundred fields, and our children Avill 
be ready to do the like. Who ’s he 
that Avishes for more men from Eng- 
land 1 My Cousin Westmoreland ? 
Give us up to the French, pshaAv ! ” 

“His uncle did,” says Mr. Es- 
mond. 

“ And Avhat happened to his grand- 
father 'I ” broke out St. John, filling 
out another bumper. “ Here ’s to the 
greatest monarch England ever saAv ; 
here ’s to the Englishman that made 
a kingdom of her. Our great King 
came from Huntingdon, not Hanover ; 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


237 


our fiithers did n’t iook for a Dutch- 
man to rule us. Let him come and 
■we ’ll keep him, and we ’ll show him 
AVhitehall. If he ’s a traitor let us 
have him here to deal with him ; and 
then there are spirits here as great as 
any that have gone before. There 
are men here that can look at danger 
in the face and not be frightened at 
it. Traitor ! treason ! what names 
are these to scare you and me ? Are 
all Oliver’s men dead, or his glorious 
name forgotten in fifty years 1 Are 
there no men equal to him, think 
you, as good — ay, as good? God 
save the King ! and, if the monarchy 
fails us, God save the British Repub- 
lic ! ” 

lie filled another great bumper, and 
tossed it up and drained it wildly, 
just as the noise of rapid carriage- 
wheels approaching was stopped at 
our door, and after a hurried knock 
and a moment’s interval, Mr. Swift 
came into the hall, ran up stairs to the 
room we were dining in, and entered 
it with a perturbed face. St. John, 
excited with drink, was making some 
wild quotation out of Macbeth, but 
Swift stopped him. 

“Drink no more, my Lord, for 
God’s sake ! ” says he. “ I come with 
the most dreadful news.” 

“ Is the Queen dead ? ” cries out 
Bolingbroke, seizing on a water-glass. 

“ No, Duke Hamilton is dead ; he 
was murdered an hour ago by Mohun 
and Macartney ; they had a quarrel 
this morning ; they gave him not so 
much time as to write a letter. He 
went for a couple of his friends, and he 
is dead, and Mohun, too, the bloody 
villain, who was set on him. They 
fought in Hyde Park just before sun- 
set ; the Duke killed Mohun, and 
Macartney came up and stabbed him, 
jind the dog is fled. I have your 
chariot below ; send to every part of 
the country and apprehend that vil- 
lain ; come to the Duke’s house and 
see if any life be left in him.” 

“0 Beatrix, Beatrix,” thought E.s- 
mond, “ and here ends my poor girl’s 
ambition ! ” 


CHAPTER VI. 

POOR BEATRIX. 

There had been no need to urge up- 
on Esmond the necessity of a separa- 
tion between him and Beatrix : Pate 
had done that completely ; and I think 
from the very moment poor Beatrix 
had accepted the Duke’s offer, she 
began to assume the majestic air of a 
Duchess, nay. Queen Elect, and to 
carry herself as one sacred and re- 
moved fi-om us common people. Her 
mother and kinsman both fell into 
her ways, the latter scornfully per- 
haps, and uttering his usual gibes at 
her vanity and his own. There was 
a certain charm about this girl of 
which neither Colonel Esmond nor 
his fond mistress could forego the 
fascination ; in spite of her faults and 
her pride and wilfulness, they were 
forced to love her ; and, indeed, 
might be set down as the two chief 
flatterers of the brilliant creature’s 
court. 

Who, in the course of his life, hath 
not been so bewitched, and worshipped 
some idol or another ? Years after 
this passion hath been dead and 
buried, along with a thousand other 
worldly cares and ambitions, he who 
felt it can recall it out of its grave, 
and admire, almost as fondly as he 
did in his youth, that lovely queenly 
creature. I invoke that beautiful 
spirit from the shades and love her 
still ; or rather I should say such a 
past is always present to a man ; 
such a passion once felt forms a part 
of his whole being, and cannot be 
separated from it ; it becomes a por- 
tion of the man of to-day, just as any 
great faith or conviction, the discov- 
ery of poetry, the awakening of re- 
ligion, ever afterwards influence him ; 
just as the wound I had at Blenheim, 
and of which I wear the scar, hath 
become part of my frame and influ- 
enced my whole body, nay, spirit 
subsequently, though ’t was got and 
healed forty years ago. Parting and 
forgetting ! What faithful heart can 
do these? Our great thoughts, our 


238 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


great affections, the Truths of our life, 
never leave us. Surely, they cannot 
separate from our consciousness ; 
shall follow it whithersoever that shall 
go ; and are of their nature divine and 
immortal. 

With the horrible news of this ca- 
tastrophe, which was confirmed by 
the weeping domestics at the Duke’s 
own door, Esmond rode homewards 
as quick as his lazy coach would carry 
him, devising all the time how he 
should break the intelligence to the 
person most concerned in it ; and if 
a satire upon human vanity could be 
needed, that poor soul afibrded it in 
tlie altered company and occupations 
in which Esmond found her. For 
days before, her chariot had been 
rolling the street from mercer to toy- 
shop — from goldsmith to laceman : 
her taste was perfect, or at least the 
fond bridegroom had thought so, and 
had given entire authority over all 
tradesmen, and for all the plate, furni- 
ture, and equipages, with which his 
Grace the Ambassador wished to adorn 
his splendid mission. She must have 
her yucture by Kneller, a duchess not 
being complete without a portrait, and 
a noble one he made, and actually 
sketched in, on a cushion, a coronet 
which she Avas about to wear. She 
voAved she would wear it at King 
James the Third’s coronation, and 
never a princess in the land would 
have become ermine better. Esmond 
found the- antechamber crowded with 
milliners and toyshop Avomen, obse- 
quious goldsmiths Avith jeAA'els, salvers, 
and tankards ; and mercers’ men Avith 
hangings, and velvets, and brocades. 
My Lady Duchess elect Avas giving 
audience to one famous silversmith 
from Exeter Change, Avho brought 
Avith him a great chased salver, of 
Avhich hcAvas pointing out the beau- 
ties as Colonel Esmond entered. 
V Come,” says she, “ cousin, and ad- 
mire the taste of this ywetty thing.” 
I think Mars and Venus Avere lying in 
the golden boAver, that one gilt Cupid 
carried off the Avar-god’s casque, — an- 
other his SAvord, — another his great 


buckler, upon Avhich my Lord Duke 
Hamilton’s arms Avith ours AA'crc to 
be engraved, — and a fourth Avas kneel- 
ing doAvn to the reclining goddess 
Avith the ducal coronet in her hands, 
God help us! The next time Mr. 
Esmond saAv that piece of plate, the 
arms AA^ere changed, the ducal coronet 
had been replaced by a viscount’s ; it 
formed part of the fortune of the 
thrifty goldsmith’s OAvn daughter, 
Avhen she married my Lord Viscount 
Squanderfield tAvo years after. 

“ Is n’t this a beautiful piece 1 ” says 
Beatrix, examining it, and she point- 
ed out the arch graces of the Cupids, 
and the fine carving of the languid 
rostrate Mars. Esmond sickened as 
e thought of the Avarrior dead in his 
chamber, his servants and children 
Aveeping around him ; and of this 
smiling creature attiring herself, as it 
Avere, for that nuptial death-bed. “ ’T is 
a pretty y^iece of vanity,” says he, 
looking gloomily at the beautiful crea- 
ture : there Avere flambeaux in the 
room lighting up the brilliant mistress 
of it. She lifted up the great gold 
salver Avith her fair arms. 

“Vanity!” says she, haughtily. 
“ What is vanity in you, sir, is pro- 
priety in me. You ask a JeAvish 
price for it, Mr. Gra\'es ; but have 
it I Avill, if only to spite Mr. Es- 
mond.” 

“ O Beatrix, lay it down ! ” says 
Mr. Esmond. . “ Herodias ! you knoAV 
not Avhat you carry in the charger.” 

She dropped it Avith a clang; the 
eager goldsmith running to seize his 
fallen Avare. The lady’s face caught 
the fright from Esmond’s pale coun- 
tenance, and her eyes shone out like 
beacons of alarm: — “What is it, 
Henry!” says .she, running to him, 
and seizing both his hands. “ What 
do you mean by your pale face and 
gloomy tones ” 

“ Come aAvay, come away ! ” says 
Esmond, leading her : she clung 
frightened to him, and he supported 
her upon his heart, bidding the scared 
goldsmith leave them. The man 
went into the next apartment, staring 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


239 


with surprise, and hugging his 
precious charger. 

“ O my Beatrix, my sister ! ” says 
Esmond, still holding in his arms the 
pallid and afFrighted creature, “ you 
have the greatest courage of any 
Avoman m the Avorld ; prepare to show 
it now, for you have a dreadful trial 
to bear.” 

She sprang away from the friend 
Avho Avould have protected her : — 
“ Hath he left me 1 says she. “ We 
had words this morning : he Avas very 
gloomy, and I angered him; but he 
dared not, he dared not ! ” As she 
spoke a burning blush flushed over 
her Avhole face and bosom. Esmond 
saAV it reflected in the glass by Avhich 
she stood, Avitli clenched hands, press- 
ing her sAvelling heart. 

“ He has left you,” says Esmond, 
AA’^ondering that rage rather than sor- 
roAV Avas in her looks. 

“And he is aliA^e,” cries Beatrix, 
“ and you bring me this commission ! 
He has left me, and you have n’t dared 
to a\'enge me ! You, that pretend to be 
the champion of our house, have let 
me suffer this insult ! Where is Cas- 
tlcAvood ? I Avill go to my brother.” 

“ The Duke is not aliv'e, Beatrix,” 
said Esmond. 

She looked at her cousin wildly, 
and fell back to the Avail as though 
shot in the breast : — “ And you come 
here, and — and — you killed him ? ” 

“ No ; thank Heaven ! ” her kins- 
man said. “ The blood of that noble 
heart doth not stain my SAVord ! In 
its last hour it Avas faithful to thee, 
Beatrix Esmond. Vain and cruel 
Avoman ! kneel and thank the aAvful 
HeaA^en Avhich aAvards life and death, 
and chastises pride, that the noble 
Hamilton died true to you ; at least 
that ’t Avas not your quarrel, or your 
pride, or your Avicked vanity, that 
drove him to his fltte. He died by 
the bloody sword Avhich already had 
drank your OAvn father’s blood. 0 
Avoman, 0 sister ! to that sad field 
Avhere tAvo corpses are lying — for the 
murderer died too by the hand of the 
man he sleAv — can you bring no 


mourners but your revenge and your 
vanity God help and pardon thee, 
Beatrix, as he brings this aAvful pun- 
ishment to your hard and rebellious 
heart ” 

Esmond had scarce done speaking, 
Avhen his mistress came in. The col- 
loquy betAveen him and Beatrix had 
lasted but a fcAV minutes, during Avhich 
time Esmond’s servant had carried 
the disastrous ucaa's through the house- 
hold. The army of Vanity Fair, 
Avaiting Avithout, gathered up all their 
fripperies and fled aghast. Tender 
Lady CastlcAvood had been in talk 
aboA'e Avith Dean Atterbury, the pious 
creature’s almoner and director ; and 
the Dean had entered Avith her as a 
physician Avhose place Avas at a sick- 
bed. Beatrix’s mother looked at Es- 
mond and ran tOAvards her daughter, 
Avith a pale face and open heart and 
hands, all kindness and pity. But 
Beatrix passed her by, nor Avould she 
have any of the medicaments of the 
spiritual physician. “I am best in 
my OAvn room and by myself,” she 
said. Her eyes Avere quite dry ; nor 
did Esmond ever see them otherAvisc, 
save once, in respect to that grief. 
She gave him a cold hand as she Avent 
out : “ Thank you, brother,” she said, 
in a loAv voice, and Avith a simplicity 
more touching than tears ; “ all you 
have said is true and kind, and I Avill 
go aAvay and ask pardon.” The three 
others remained behind, and talked 
over the dreadful story. It affected 
Dr. Atterbury more even than us, as 
it seemed. The death of Mohun, her 
husband’s murderer, Avas more awful 
to my mistress than even the Duke’s 
unhappy end. Esmond gave at 
length Avhat particulars he kncAv of 
their quarrel, and the cause of it. 
The two noblemen had long been at 
Avar Avith respect to the Lord Gerard’s 
property, Avhose tAvo daughters my 
Lord Duke and Mohun had married. 
They had met by appointment that 
day at the laAvyer’s in Lincoln’s Inn 
Fields; had words Avhich, though 
they appeared very trifling to those 
who heard them, Avere not so to men 


242 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


menaces of the Royal resentment, 
should this scheme be persisted in, 
prevented it from being carried into 
effect. 

The boldest on our side were, in 
like manner, for having our Prince 
into the country. The undoubted 
inheritor of the right divine ; the 
* feelings of more than half the nation, 
of almost all the clergy, of the gentry 
of England and Scotland with him ; 
entirely innocent of the crime for 
which his father suffered, — brave, 
young, handsome, unfortunate, — who 
in England would dare to molest the 
Prince should he come among us, and 
fling himself upon British generosity, 
hospitality, and honor '? An invader 
with an army of Frenchmen behind 
him, Englishmen of spirit would re- 
sist to the death, and drive back to 
the shores whence he came ; but a 
Prince, alone, armed with his right 
only, and relying on the loyalty of 
his people, was sure, many of his 
friends argued, of welcome, at least 
of safety, among us. The hand of 
his sister the Queen, of the people his 
subjects, never could be raised to do 
him a wrong. But the Queen was 
timid by nature, and the successive 
Ministers she had, had private causes 
for their irresolution. The bolder 
and honester men, who had at heart 
the illustrious young exile’s cause, 
had no scheme of interest of their own 
to prevent them from seeing the right 
done, and, provided only he came as 
an Englishman, were ready to venture 
their all to welcome and defend him. 

St. John and Harley both had kind 
words in plenty for the Prince’s adhe- 
rents, and gave him endless promises 
of future support ; but hints and 
promises were all they could be got to 
give ; and some of his friends were 
for measures much bolder, more effi- 
cacious, and more open. With a 
party of these, some of whom are yet 
alive, and some whose names Mr. Es- 
mond has no right to mention, he 
found himself engaged the year after 
that miserable death of Duke Hamil- 
ton, which deprived the Prince of his 


most courageous ally in his country. 
Dean Atterbury was one of the friends 
whom Esmond may mention, as the 
brave bishop is now beyond exile and 
persecution, and to him, and one or 
two more, the Colonel opened him- 
self of a scheme of his own, that, 
backed by a little resolution on the 
Prince’s part, could not fail of bring- 
ing about the accomplishment of their 
dearest wishes. 

My young Lord Viscount Castle- 
wood had not come to England to 
keep his majority, and had now been 
absent from the country for several 
years. The year Avhen his sister 
was to be married and Duke Hamil- 
ton died, my Lord was kept at Bru- 
xelles by his wife’s lying-in. The gen- 
tle Clotilda could not bear her hus- 
band out of her sight ; perhaps she 
mistrusted the young scapegrace 
should he ever get loose from her 
leading-strings ; and she kept him by 
her side to nurse the baby and admin- 
ister posset to the gossips. Many a 
laugh poor Beatrix had had about 
Frank’s uxoriousness: his mother 
Avould have gone to Clotilda when her 
time was coming, but that the mother- 
in-law was already in possession, and 
the negotiations for poor Beatrix’s 
marriage were begun. A few months 
after the horrid catastrophe in Hyde 
Park, my mistress and her daughter 
retired to Castlewood, where my Lord, 
it was expected, would soon join 
them. But, to say truth, their quiet 
household was little to his taste ; he 
could be got to come to Walcote but 
once after his first campaign ; and 
then the young rogue spent more than 
half his time in London, not appear- 
ing at Court or in public under his 
own name and title, but frequenting 
plays, bagnios, and the very Avorst 
company, under the name of Captain 
Esmond (whereby his innocent kins- 
man got more than once into trouble) ; 
and so under various pretexts, and in 
pursuit of all sorts of pleasures, until 
he plunged into the lawful one of 
marriage, Frank Castlewood had re- 
mained away from this country, and 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


243 


•was unknown, save amongst the gen- 
tlemen of the army, with whom he 
had served abroad. The fond heart 
of his mother was pained by tliis long 
absence. 'T was all that Henry Es- 
mond could do to soothe her natural 
mortification, and find excuses for his 
kinsman’s levity. 

In the autumn of the year 1713, 
Lord Castlewood thought of return- 
ing home. His first child had been a 
daughter ; Clotilda was in the way of 
gratifying his Lordship with a second, 
and the pious youth thought that, by 
bringing his wife to his ancestral 
home, by prayers to St. Philip of 
Castlewood, and what not. Heaven 
might be induced to bless him with a 
son this time, for whose coming the 
expectant mamma was very anxious. 

The long-debated peace had been 
proclaimed this year at the end of 
March ; and France was open to us. 
Just as Frank’s poor mother had 
made all things ready for Lord Cas- 
tlewood’s reception, and was eagerly 
expecting her son, it was by Colonel 
Esmond’s means that' the kind lady 
was disappointed of her longing, and 
obliged to defer once more the darling 
hope of her heart. 

Esmond took horses to Castlewood. 
He had not seen its ancient gray 
towers and well-remembered woods 
for nearly fourteen years, and since 
he rode thence with my Lord, to 
whom his mistress with her young 
childi'en by her side waved an adieu. 
What ages seemed to have passed 
since then, what years of action and 
passion, of care, love, hope, disaster ! 
The children were grown up now, and 
had stories of their own. As for Es- 
mond, he felt to be a hundred years 
old ; his dear mistress only seemed 
unchanged ; she looked and welcomed 
him quite as of old. There was the 
fountain in the court babbling its 
familiar music, the old hall and its 
furniture, the carved chair my late 
lord used, the very flagon he drank 
from. Esmond’s mistress knew he 
would like to sleep in the little room 
he used to occupy ; T was made ready 


for him, and wallflowers and sweet 
herbs set in the adjoining chamber, 
the chaplain’s room. 

In tears of not unmanly emotion, 
with prayers of submission to the 
awful Hispenser of death and life, of 
good and evil fortune, Mr, Esmond 
passed a part of that first night at Cas- 
tle wood lying awake lor many hours 
as the clock kept toiling (in tones so 
well remembered), looking back, as 
all men will, that revisit their home 
of childhood, over the great gulf of 
time, and surveying himself on the 
distant bank yonder, a sad little mel- 
ancholy boy with his lord still alive, 
— his dear mistress, a girl y'ct, her 
children sporting around her. YTars 
ago, a boy on that very bed, when she 
had blessed him and called him her 
knight, he had made a vow to be 
faithful and never desert her dear 
service. Had he kept that fond boy- 
ish promise ? Y'es, before Heaven ; 
yes, praise be to God ! His life had 
been hers; his blood, his fortiine, his 
name, his whole heart ever since had 
been hers and her children’s. All 
night long he was dreaming his boy- 
hood over again, and Avaking fitfully ; 
he half fancied he heard Father Holt 
calling to him from the next chamber, 
and that he was coming in and out 
from the mysterious Avindow, 

Esmond rose up before the daAvn, 
passed into the next room, Avhere the 
air Avas heaA’y Avith the odor of the 
AvallfloAvers ; looked into the brazier 
Avhere the papers had been bunit, into 
the old presses AA'here Holt’s books 
and papers had been kept, and tried 
the spring and Avhether the Avindow 
AA'Orked still. The spring had not 
been touched for years, but yielded at 
length, and the Avhole fabric of the 
Avindow sank doAvn. He lifted it and 
it relapsed into its frame ; no one had 
ever passed thence since Holt used it 
sixteen years ago. 

Esmond remembered his poor lord 
saying, on the last day of his life, 
that Holt used to come in and out of 
the house like a ghost, and kncAv that 
the Father liked these mysteries, and 


244 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND, 


practised such secret disguises, en- 
trances, and exits : this was the way 
the ghost came and went, his pupil 
had always conjectured. Esmond 
closed the casement up again as the 
dawn was rising over Castlewood 
village; he could hear the clinking at 
the blacksmith’s forge yonder among 
the trees, across the green, and past 
the river, on which a mist still lay 
sleeping. 

Next Esmond opened that long 
cupboard over the woodwork of the 
mantel-piece, big enough to hold a 
man, and in which Mr. Holt used to 
keep sundry secret properties of his. 
The two swords he remembered so 
well as a boy lay actually there still, 
and Esmond took them out and wiped 
them, with a strange curiosity of 
emotion. There were a bundle of 
papers here, too, which no doubt had 
been left at Holt’s last visit to the 
place, in my Lord Viscount’s life, 
that very day Avhen the priest had 
been arrested and taken to Hexham 
Castle. Esmond made free with these 
papers, and found treasonable matter 
of King William’s reign, the names 
of Charnock and Perkins, Sir John 
Fenwick and Sir John Friend, Hook- 
wood and Lodwick, Lords Mont- 
gomery and Ailcsbury, Clarendon 
and Yarmouth, that had all been en- 
gaged in plots against the usurper ; a 
letter from the Duke of Berwick too, 
and one from the King at St. Ger- 
mains, offering to confer upon his 
trusty and well-beloved Francis Vis- 
count CastlcAvood the titles of Earl 
and Marquis of Esmond, bestowed 
by patent royal, and in the fourth 
year of his reign, upon Thomas Vis- 
count Castlewood and the heirs-male 
of his body, in default of Avhich issue 
(he ranks and dignities were to pass 
to Francis aforesaid. 

This was the paper, whereof my Lord 
had spoken, which Holt showed him 
the very day he was arrested, and for 
an answer to which he would come 
back in a week’s time. I jjut these 

i napers hastily into the crypt Avhence 
; had taken them, being interrupted by 


a tapping of a light finger at the ring 
of the chamber door : ’t was my kind 
mistress, with her face full of love and 
Avelcome. She, too, had passed the 
night Avakefully, no doubt ; but 
neither asked the other hoAv the hours 
had been spent. There are things 
we divine without speaking, and 
know though they happen out of our 
sight. This fond lady hath told me 
that she kncAV both days Avhen I Avas 
Avounded abroad. Who shall say hoAV 
far sympathy reaches, and hoAv truly 
love can prophesy ? “1 looked into 

our room,” Avas all she said ; “ the 
ed Avas A*acant, the little old bed ! I 
kneAv I should find you here.” And 
tender and blushing faintly Avith a 
benediction in her eyes, the gentle 
creature kissed him. 

They Avalkcd out, hand-in-hand, 
through the old court, and to the 
terracc-Avalk, Avhere the grass Avas 
glistening Avith cIcaa^, and the birds in 
the green Avoods above Avere singing 
their delicious choruses under tlie 
blushing morning sky. Hoav Avell all 
things Avere remembered ! The ancient 
toAA crs and gables of the hall darkling 
against the east, the purple shacloAvs 
on the green slopes, the quaint devices 
and carvings of the dial, the forest- 
croAvned heights, the fair yellow plain 
cheerful Avith crops and corn, the 
shining river rolling through it to- 
wards the pearly hills beyond ; all 
these Averc before us, along Avith a 
thousand beautiful memories of our 
youth, beautiful and sad, but as real 
and vivid in our minds as that fitir 
and alAvays-remembered scene our 
eyes beheld once more. We forget 
nothing. The memory sleeps, but 
Avakens again ; I often think Iioav it 
shall be, when, after the last sleep of 
death, the reveillee shall arouse us for- 
ever, and the past in one flash of 
self-consciousness rush back, like the 
soul, revivified. 

The house Avould not be up for 
some hours yet (it AA'as July, and the 
daAvn Avas only just awake), and here 
Esmond opened himself to his mis- 
tress, of the business he had in hand. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


245 


and what part Frank was to play in 
it. He knew he could confide any- 
thin^ to her, and that the fond soul 
would die rather than reveal it ; and 
biddinj? her keep the secret from all, 
he laid it entirely before his mistress 
(always as stanch a little loyalist as 
any in the kingdom), and indeed was 
quite sure that any plan of his was 
secui'e of her applause and sympathy. 
Never was such a glorious scheme to 
her partial mind, never such a devoted 
knight to execute it. An hour or two 
may have passed whilst they were 
having their colloquy. Beatrix came 
out to them just as their talk was 
over ; her tall beautiful form robed in 
sable (which she wore without osten- 
tation ever since last year’s catas- 
trophe), sweeping over the green 
terrace, and casting its shadows before 
her across the grass. 

She made us one of her grand 
courtesies smiling, and called us “ the 
young people.” She was older, paler, 
and more majestic than in the year 
before ; her mother seemed the young- 
est of the two. She never once spoke 
of her grief, Lady Castlevvood told 
Esmond, or alluded, save by a quiet 
word or two, to the death of her hopes. 

When Beatrix came -back to Castle- 
wood she took to visiting all the 
cottages and all the sick. She set up 
a school of children, and taught sing- 
ing to some of them. We bad a pair 
of beautiful old organs in Castlewood 
Church, on which she played admir- 
ably, so that the music there became 
to be known in the country for many 
miles round, and no doubt people 
came to see the fair organist as well 
as to hear her. Parson Tu slier and 
his wife were established at the vicar- 
age, but his wife had brought him no 
children wherewith Tom might meet 
his enemies at the gate. Honest Tom 
took care not to have many such, his 
great shovel-hat was in his hand for 
everybody. He was profuse of bows 
and com])liments. He behaved to 
Esmond as if the Colonel had been a 
Commander-in-Chief ; he dined at the 
hall that day, being Sunday, and 


would not partake of pudding except 
under extreme pressure. He deplored 
my Lord’s perv^ersion, but drank his 
Lordship’s health very devoutly ; and 
an hour before at church sent the 
Colonel to sleep, with along, learned, 
and refreshing sermon. 

Esmond’s visit home was but for 
two days ; the business he had in hand 
calling him away and out of the coun- 
try. Ere he went, he saw Beatrix 
but once alone, and then she sum- 
moned him out of the long tapestry 
room, where he and his mistress were 
sitting, quite as in old times, into the 
adjoining chamber, that had been Vis- 
countess Isabel’s sleeping apartment, 
and where Esmond perfectly well re- 
membered seeing the old lady sitting 
up in the bed, in her night-rail, that 
morning when the troop of guard 
came to fetch her. The most beauti- 
ful woman in England lay in that bed 
now, whereof the great damask hang- 
ings Avere scarce faded since Esmond 
saw them last. 

Here stood Beatrix in her black 
robes, holding a box in her hand ; 
’t was that which Esmond had given 
her before her marriage, stainped with 
a coronet which the disappointed girl 
was never to wear ; and containing his 
aunt’s legacy of diamonds. 

“ You had best take these with you, 
Harry,” says she ; “ I have no need of 
diamonds any more.” There was not 
the least token of emotion in her 
quiet low voice. She held out the 
black shagreen case Avith her fair arm, 
that did not shake in the least. Es- 
mond saAV she Avore a black velvet 
bracelet on it, Avith my Lord Duke’s 
picture in enamel ; he had given it 
her but three days before he fell. 

Esmond said the stones Averehis no 
longer, and strove to turn off that 
proffered restoration AA'ith a laugh : 
“ Of Avhat good,” says he, “ are they 
to me ? The diamond loop to his 
hat did not set off' Prince Eugene, 
and Avill not make my yelloAV face 
look any handsomer.” 

“ You Avill give them to your Avife, 
cousin,” says she. “ My cousin, your 


246 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


wife has a lovely complexion and 
shape.” 

“ Beatrix,” Esmond burst out, the 
old tire flaming out as it would at 
times, “ will you wear those trinkets 
at your marriage ? You whispered 
once you did not know me: you 
know me better noAv : how I sought 
what I have sighed for, tor ten years, 
what foregone ! ” 

“ A price for your constancy, my 
Lord ! ” says she ; “ such a preux chev- 
alier wants to be paid. O fie, cousin ! ” 
“ Again,” Esmond spoke out, “ if 
I do something you have at heart ; 
something worthy of me and you ; 
something that shall make me a name 
with which to endow you ; will you 
take it 1 There was a chance for me 
once, you said ; is it impossible to recall 
it ? Never shake your head, but hear 
me; say you will hear me a year 
hence. If I come back to you and 
bring you fame, will that please you '? 
If 1 do what you desire most, — what 
he who is dead desired most, — will 
that soften you ” 

“ What is it, Henry 1 ” says she, her 
face lighting up ; “ what mean jmu ? ” 
“ Ask no questions,” he said ; 
“ wait, and give me but time ; if I 
bring back that you long for, that I 
have a thousand times heard you 
praj for, will you have no reward for 
him who has done you that service ? 
put away those trinkets, keep them : 
it shall not be at my marriage, it shall 
not be at yours ; but if man can do it, 
I swear a day shall come when there 
shall be a feast in your house, and 
you shall be proud to wear them. 
I say no more now ; put aside these 
words, and lock away yonder box un- 
til the day when I shall remind you 
of both. All I pray of you now is, to 
wait and to remember.” 

“ You are going out of the coun- 
try ? ” says Beatrix, in some agitation. 
“ Yes, to-morrow,” says Esmond. 

“ To Lorraine, eousin ^ ” says 
Beatrix, laying her hand on his arm ; 
T was the liand on which she wore 
the Duke’s bracelet. “ Stay, Har- 
ry ! ” continued she, with a tone that 


had more despondency in it than she 
Avas accustomed to show. “ Hear a 
last word. I do love you. I do ad- 
mire you, — who would not, that has* 
known such love as yours has been 
for us all 1 But I think I have no 
heart ; at least I have never seen the 
man that could touch it ; and, had I 
found him, I Avould have followed 
him in rags had he been a private sol- 
dier, or to sea, like one of those buc- 
caneers you used to read to us about 
Avhen we were children. I would do 
anything for such a man, bear any- 
thing for him : but I never found one. 
You Avere ever too much of a slave to 
win my heart ; even my Lord Duke 
could not command it. I had not been 
happy had I married him. I kncAV 
that three months after our engage- 
ment, — and Avas too vain to break it. 

0 Harry ! I cried once or tAvice, not 
for him, but Avith tears of rage be- 
cause I could not be sorry for him. I 
Avas frightened to And 1 Avas glad of 
his death ; and Avere I joined to you, 

1 should have the same sense of servi- 
tude, the same longing to escape. 
We should both be unhappy, and you 
the most, Avho are as jealous as the 
Duke Avas himself. I tried to loA'e 
him ; I tried, indeed I did : affec ted 
gladness Avhen he came : submitted 
to hear Avhen he Avas by me, and tried 
the Avife’s part I thought I Avas to 
play for the rest of my days. But 
half an hour of that complaisance 
Avearied me, and Avhat Avould a life- 
time be ? My thoughts AAere aAvay 
when he AA’as speaking ; and I Avas 
thinking, O that this man Avould 
drop my hand, and rise up from be- 
fore my feet ! I kncAV his great and 
noble qualities, greater and nobler 
than mine a thousand times, as yours 
are, cousin, I tell you, a million and a 
million times better. But ’t Avas.not 
for these I took him. I took him to 
have a great jdace in the Avorld, and I 
lost it. I lost it, and do not deplore 
him, — and I often thought, as I lis- 
tened to his fond voavs, and ardent 
Avords, O, if I yield to this man, and 
meet the other, I shall hate him and 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


247 


leave him ! I am not good, Harry : 
my motlier is gentle and good like an 
angel. I wonder how she should 
have had such a child. She is weak, 
hat she would die rather than do a 
wrong ; I am stronger than she, but 
I would do it out of defiance. I do 
not care for what the parsons tell me 
with their droning sermons ; I used to 
see them at court as mean and as 
worthless as the meanest woman 
there. 0, I am sick and weary of the 
Avorld ! I wait but for one thing, and 
when T is done, I will take Frank’s 
religion and your poor mother’s, and 
go into a nunnery, and end like her. 
Shall I wear the diamonds then ? — 
they say the nuns wear their best 
trinkets the day they take the veil. I 
will put them away as you bid me ; 
farewell, cousin : mamma is pacing 
the next room, racking her little head 
to know what we have been saying. 
She is jealous, all women are. I 
sometimes - think that is the only 
womanly quality I have.” 

“ Farewell. Farewell, brother.” 
She gave him her cheek as a brother- 
ly privilege. The cheek was as cold 
as marble. 

Esmond’s mistress showed no signs 
of jealousy when he returned to the 
room where she was. She had 
schooled herself so as to look quite 
inscrutably, when she had a mind. 
Amongst her other feminine qualities 
she had that of being a i^erfect dissem- 
bler. 

He rid away from Castlewood to 
attempt the task he was bound on, 
and stand or fall by it ; in truth his 
state of mind was such, that he Avas 
eager for some outward excitement to 
counteract that gnawing malady 
which he was inwardly enduring. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

1 TRAVEL TO ERAXCE AND BRING 
HOME A PORTRAIT OF RIGAUD. 

Mr. Esmond did not think fit to take 
leave at Court, or to inform all the 


world of Pall Mall and the coffee- 
houses that he was about to quit 
England ; and chose to depart in the 
most private manner possible. He 
procured a pass as for a Frenchman, 
through Dr. Atterbury, avIio did that 
business for him, getting the signature 
even from Lord Bolingbroke’s office, 
without any personal application to 
the Secretary. Lockwood, his faith- 
ful servant, he took Avith him to Cas- 
tlcAvood, and left behind there : giving 
out ere he left London tliat he himself 
Avas sick, and gone to Hampshire for 
country air, and so departed as silent- 
ly as might be upon his business. 

As Frank CastlcAV'ood’s aid Avas in- 
dispensable for Mr. Esmond’s scheme, 
his first visit was to Bruxelles (pass- 
ing by Avay of AntAverp, Avhere the 
Duke of Marlborough Avas in exile), 
and in the first-named place Harry 
found his dear young Benedict, the 
married man, Avho a[)peared to be 
rather out of humor Avith his matri- 
monial chain, and clogged Avith the 
obstinate embraces Avhich Clotilda 
kept round his neck. Colonel Es- 
mond AA'as not presented to her ; but 
Monsieur Simon aaus, a gentleman of 
the Royal CraA^at (Esmond bethought 
him of the regiment of his. honest 
Irishman, whom he had seen that 
day after Malplaquet, Avhen he first 
set eyes on the young King) ; and 
Monsieur Simon Avas introduced to 
the Viscountess CastlcAvood, nee 
Comptesse Wertheim ; to the numer- 
ous counts; the Lady Clotilda’s tall 
brothers ; to her father the chamber- 
lain ; and to the lady his Avife, Frank’s 
mother-in-laAV, a tall and majestic 
person of large proportions, such as 
became the mother of such a compa- 
ny of grenadiers as her Avarlike sons 
formed. The Avhole race Avere at free 
quarters in the little castle nigh to 
Bruxelles Avhich Frank had taken; 
rode his horses ; drank his Avinc ; and 
lived easily at the poor lad’s charges. 
Mr. Esmond had always maintained 
a perfect fluency in the French, Avhich 
Avas his mother tongue ; and if this 
family (that spoke French Avith the 


248 


THE HISTOEY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


twang whicli the Flemings nse) dis- 
covered any inaccuracy in Mr. Simon’s 
pronunciation, ’t was to be attributed 
to the latter’s long residence in Eng- 
land, where he had married and re- 
mained ever since he was taken pris- 
oner at Blenheim. His story was 
perfectly pat ; there were none there 
to doubt it save honest Frank, and he 
was charmed with his kinsman’s 
scheme, when he became acquainted 
with it ; and, in truth, always admired 
Colonel Esmond with an affectionate 
fidelity, and thought his cousin the 
wisest and best of all cousins and men. 
Frank entered heart and soul into the 
plan, and liked it the better as it was 
to take him to Paris, out of reach of his 
brothers, his father, and his mother- 
in-law, whose attentions rather fa- 
tigued him. 

Castlcwood, I have said, was born 
in the same year as the Prince of 
Wales ; had not a little of the 
Prince’s air, height, and figure ; and, 
especially since he had seen the 
Chevalier de St. George on the occa- 
sion before named, took no small 
pride in his resemblance to a person 
so illustrious ; which likeness he 
increased by all means in his power, 
wearing fair brown periwigs, such as 
the Prince wore, and ribbons, and so 
forth, of the Chevalier’s color. 

This resemblance was, in truth, 
the circumstance on which Mr. Es- 
mond’s scheme was founded ; and 
having secured Frank’s secrecy and 
enthusiasm, he left him to continue 
his journey, and see the other person- 
ages on Avhom its success depended. 
The place Avhither Mr. Simon next 
travelled was Bar, in Lorraine, where 
that merchant arrived with a consign- 
ment of broadcloths, valuable laces 
from Malines, and letters for his 
correspondent there. 

Would you know how a prince, 
heroic from misfortunes, and de- 
scended from a line of kings, whose 
raee seemed to be doomed like the 
Atrida; of old, — would you know 
how he was employed, when the 
envoy who came to him through 


danger and difficulty beheld him for 
the first time 1 The young king, in 
a flannel jacket, was at tennis with 
the gentlemen of his suite, crying out 
after the balls, and SAvearing like the 
meanest of his subjects. The next 
time Mr. Esmond saw him, ’t' Avas 
Avhen Monsieur Simon took a packet 
of laces to Miss Oglethorpe : the 
Prince’s antechamber in those days, 
at Avhich ignoble door men Avere 
forced to knock for admission to his 
Majesty. The admission Avas gh^en, 
the enA^oy found the. King and the 
mistress together ; ’ the pair Avere at 
cards and his Majesty Avas in liquor. 
He cared more for three honors than 
three kingdoms ; and a half-dozen 
glasses of ratafia made him forget all 
his Avoes and his losses, his father’s 
crown, and his grandfather’s head. 

Mr. Esmond did not open himself 
to the Prince then. His Majesty was 
scarce in a condition to hear him ; 
and he doubted Avhether a king aa ho 
drank so much could keep a secret in 
his fuddled head ; or Avhether a hand 
that shook so Avas strong enough to 
grasp at a croAvn. HoAvever, at last, 
and after taking counsel with the 
Prince’s advisers, amongst Avhom 
Avere many gentlemen, honest and 
faithful, Esmond’s plan Avas laid 
before the King, and her actual 
Majesty Queen Oglethorpe, in council. 
The Prince liked the scheme Avell 
enough ; ’t was easy and daring, and 
suited to his reckless gayety and 
lively youthful spirit. In the morning 
after he had slept his Avine off, he Avas 
very gay, liA'ely, and agreeable. His 
manner had an extreme charm of 
archness, and a kind simplicity ; and, 
to do her justice, her Oglethorpean 
Majesty was kind, acute, resolute, 
and of good counsel; she gave the 
Prince much good adA'ice that he Avas 
too AA'eak to folloAv, and loA'cd him 
with a fidelity Avhich he returned Avith 
an ingratitude quite Royal. 

Having his own forebodings re- 
garding his scheme should it CA'er be 
fulfilled, and his usual sceptic doubts 
as to the benefit which might accrue 


4 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESJIOND. 


219 


to the country by bringing a, tipsy 
voung monarch back to it, Colonel 
Esmond had his audience of leave 
and quiet. Monsieur Simon took his 
departure. At any rate the yoiith at 
Bar was as good as the older Pre- 
tender at Hanover ; if the worst came 
to the worst, the Englishman could 
be dealt with as easy as the German. 
Monsieur Simon trotted on that long 
journey from Nancy to Paris, and 
saw that famous town, stealthily and 
like a spy, as in truth he was ; and 
where, sure, more magnificence and 
more misery is heaped together, more 
rags and lace, more filth and gilding, 
than in any city in this world. Here he 
was put in communication with the 
King’s best friend, his half-brother, 
the famous Dpke of Berwick; Es- 
mond recognized him as the stranger 
W'ho had visited Castlewood now near 
twenty yeai's ago. His Grace opened 
to him when he found that Mr. 
Esmond was one of Webb’s brave 
regiment, that had once been his 
Grace’s own. He was the sword and 
buckler indeed of the Stuart cause : 
there was no stain on his shield 
except the bar across it, which Marl- 
borough’s sister left him. Had 
Berwick been his father’s heir, James 
the Third had assuredly sat on the 
English throne. He could dare, 
endure, strike, speak, be silent. The 
fire and genius, perhaps, he had not 
(that were given to baser men), 
but except these he had some of 
the best qualities of a leader. His 
Grace knew Esmond’s father and 
liistory ; and hinted at the latter in 
such a way as made the Colonel to 
think he was aware of the particulars 
of that story. But Esmond did not 
choose to enter on it, nor did the 
Duke press him. Mr. Esmond said, 
“ Xo doubt he should come by his 
name if ever greater people came by 
theirs.” 

What confirmed Esmond in his no- 
tion that the Duke of Berwick knew 
of his case was, that when the Colo- 
nel went to pay his duty at St. Ger- 
mains, her Majesty once addressed 
11 * 


] him by the title of Marquis. He took 
the Queen the dutiful remembrances 
of her goddaughter, and the Lady 
whom, in the days of her prosperity, 
her Majesty had befriended. The 
Queen remembered liachel Esmond 
perfectly well, had heard of my Lord 
Castlewood’s conversion, and was 
much edified by that act of Heaven in 
his favor. She knew that others of 
that family had been of the only true 
church too : “ Your father and your 
mother, M. le Marquis,” her Majesty 
said (tliat was the only time she used 
the phrase). Monsieur Simon bowed 
very low, and said he had found oth- 
er parents than his own, who had 
taught him differently ; but these had 
only one king : on which her Maj- 
esty was pleased to give him a medal 
blessed by the Pope, which had been 
found very cfiicacious in cases similar 
to his own, and to promise she would 
offer up prayers for his conversion 
and that of the family : Avhicli no 
doubt this pious lady did, though up 
to the present moment, and after 
twenty-seven years. Colonel Esmond 
is bound to say that neither the medal 
nor the prayers have had the slightest 
known effect upon his religious con- 
victions. 

As for the splendors of Versaillc.s, 
Monsieur Simon, the merchant, only 
beheld them as a humlde and distant 
spectator, seeing the old king but 
once, when he went to feed his car])s ; 
and asking for no presentation at his 
Majesty’s Court. 

By this time my Lord Viscount 
Castlew'ood was got to Paris, where, 
as the London prints presently an- 
nounced, her Ladyship Avas brought 
to bed of a son and heir. For a long 
Avhile afterwards she Avas in a delicate 
state of health, and ordered by the 
physicians not to traA-el ; otherAvise 
’t Avas Avell knoAvn tliat the Viscount 
CastlcAvood proposed returning to 
England, and taking up his residence 
at his oAvn seat. 

Whilst he remained at Paris, my 
Lord CastlcAvood had his jiicture 
done by the famous French painter. 


250 


THE HISTOEY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


Monsieur Ri<^aud, a present for his 
mother in London ; and this piece 
Monsieur Simon took back with him 
when he returned to that city, which 
he reached about May, in the year 
1714, very soon after which time my 
Lady Castlewood and her daughter, 
and their kinsman. Colonel Esmond, 
who had been at Castlewood all this 
time, likewise returned to London ; 
her Ladyship occupying her house at 
Kensington, Mr. Esmond returning 
to his lodgings at Knightsbridge, 
nearer the town, and once more mak- 
ing his appearance at all public 
places, his health greatly improved 
by’ his long stay in the country. 

The portrait of my Lord, in a 
handsome gilt fi'ame, was hung up in 
the place of honor in her Ladyship’s 
drawing-room. His Lordship Avas 
represented in his scarlet uniform of 
Captain of the Guard, Avith a light 
brown periwig, a cuirass under his 
coat, a blue ribbon and a fall of 
Hruxelles lace. Many of her Lady- 
ship’s friends admired the piece be- 
yond measure, and flocked to see it ; 
Bishop Atterbury, Mr. Lesly, good 
old Mr. Collier, and others amongst 
the clergy, Avere delighted Avith tlie 
performance, and many among the 
first quality examined and praised it ; 
only I must OAvn that Doctor Tushcr 
happening to come up to London, 
and seeing the picture (it Avas ordina- 
rily covered by a curtain, but on this 
day Miss Beatrix happened to be 
looking at it Avhen the Doctor ar- 
riv(j;d), the Vicar of CastlcAvood 
A'owed he could not see any resem- 
blance in the piece to his old pupil, 
except, perhaps a little about the 
chin, and the peruvig ; but Ave all of 
us convinced him that he bad not 
seen Frank for fiA^e years or more; 
that he kneAv no more about the Fine 
Arts than a ploughboy, and that he 
must be mistaken ; and Ave sent him 
home assured that the j)icce Avas an 
excellent likeness. As for my Lord 
Boling-broke, Avho honored her Lady- 
ship Avith a visit occasionally, Avhen 
Colonel Esmond »hoAved him the pic- 


ture he burst out laughing, and asked 
Avhat devilry he was engaged on ? 
Esmond OAvned simply that the por- 
trait AA'as not that of Viscount Castle- 
AAmod ; besought the Secretary on his 
honor to keep the secret ; said that 
the ladies of the house Avei e enthusias- 
tic Jacobites, as Avas Avell knoAvn ; 
and confessed that the picture Avas 
that of the Chevalier St. George. 

The truth is, that Mr. Simon, Avait- 
ing upon Lord CastlcAvood one day 
at Monsieur Bigaud’s, Avhilst his 
Lordship Avas sitting for his picture, 
affected to be much struck Avith a 
pieeb representing tlie Chevalier, 
Avhereof the head only Avas finished, 
and purchased it of the painter for a 
hundred crowns. It had been intend- 
ed, the artist said, for Miss Ogle- 
thorpe, the Prince’s mistress, but that 
young lady quitting Paris, had left 
the AA’ork on the artist’s -hands ; and 
taking this ])iecc home, Avhen my 
Lord’s portrait arriAcd, Colonel Es- 
mond, alias Monsieur Simon, had 
copied the uniform and other accesso- 
ries from my Lord’s picture to fill up 
Kigaud’s incomplete canvas : the 
Colonel all his life having been a 
practitioner of painting, and especial- 
ly folloAvcd it during his long resi- 
dence in the cities of Flanders, among 
the masterpieces of Vandyck and 
Rubens. My grandson hath the 
piece, such as it is, in Virginia noAV. 

At the commencement of the month 
of June, Miss Beatrix Esmond, and 
my Lady Viscountess, her motlni, 
arrived from CastlcAvood ; the former 
to resume her services at Court, Avhich 
had been interrupted by the fatal 
catastrophe of Duke Hamilton’s 
death. She once more took her 
place, then, in her Majesty’s suite 
and at the Maids’ table, being ahvays 
a fiivorite Avith Mrs. Masham, tlie 
Queen’s chief Avoman, partly perhaps 
on account of their bitterness against 
the Duchess of Marlborough, Avliom 
Miss Beatrix loved no better than 
her rival did. The gentlemen about 
the Court, my Lord Bolingbroke 
amongst others, OAvned that the 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


251 


3’OUTig lady had come back handsomer 
than ever, and that the serious and 
tragic air winch her face now invol- 
untarily wore became her better than 
her former smiles and archness. 

All the old domestics at the little 
house of Kensington Square were 
changed ; the old steward that had 
served the family any time these five- 
and-twenty years, since the birth of 
the children of the house, was de- 
spatched into the kingdom of Ireland 
to see my Lord’s estate there : the 
housekeeper, who had been my Lady’s 
woman time out of mind, and the at- 
tendant of the young children, was 
sent away grumbling to Walcote, to 
see to the new painting and prepar- 
ing of that house, which my Lady 
Dowager intended to occupy for the 
future, giving up Castlewood to her 
daughter-in-law that might be ex- 
pected daily from France. Another 
servant the Viscountess had was 
dismissed too — with a gratuity — 
on the pretext that her Ladyship’s 
train of domestics must be diminished ; 
so, finally, there was not left in the 
household a single person who had be- 
longed to it during the time my young 
Lord Castlewood was yet at home. 

For the plan which Colonel Es- 
mond had in view, and the stroke he 
intended, ’t was necessary that the 
very smallest number of persons 
Bhould be put in possession of his 
secret. It scarce was known, except 
to three or four out of his family, 
and it was kept to a wonder. 

On the 10th of June, 1714, there 
came by Mr. Prior’s messenger from 
Paris a letter from my Lord Viscount 
Castlewood to his mother, saying 
that he had been foolish in regard of 
money matters, that he was ashamed 
to own he had lost at play, and by 
other extravagances ; and that instead 
of having great entertainments as he 
had hoped at Castlewood this year, 
he must live as quiet as he could, and 
make every effort to be saving. So 
far every word of poor Frank’s letter 
was true, nor was there a doubt that 
he and his tall brothers-in-law had 


spent a great deal more than they 
ought, and engaged the revenues of the 
Castlewood ])roperty, which the fond 
mother had husbanded and improved 
so carefully during the time of her 
guardianship. 

His “ Clotilda,” Castlewood went 
on to say, “ was still delicate, and the 
physicians thought her lying-in had 
best take place at Paris. * He should 
come without her Ladyship, and be 
at his mother’s house about the 17ih 
or 18th day of June, proposing to take 
horse from Paris immediately, and 
bringing but a single servant with 
him ; and he requested that the law- 
yers of Gray’s Inn might be invited 
to meet him with their account, and 
the land-steward come from Castle- 
wood with his, so that he might set- 
tle with them speedily, raise a sum 
of money whereof he stood in need, 
and be back to his Viscountess by 
the time of her lying-in.” Then his 
Lordship gave some of the news of 
the town, sent his remembrance to 
kinsfolk, and so the letter ended. 
’T was put in the common post, and 
no doubt the French police and the 
English there had a copy of it, to 
which they were exceeding welcome. 

Two days after another letter was 
despatched by the public post of 
France, in the same open way, and 
this, after giving news of the fashion 
at Court there, ended by the follow- 
ing sentences, in which, but for those 
that had the key, ’t would be difficult 
for any man to find any secret lurked 
at all : — 

“ (The King will take) medicine 
on Thursday. His Ma,jesty is better 
than he hath been of late, though 
incommoded by indigestion from his 
too great appetite. Madame Mainte- 
non continues well. They have per- 
formed a play of Mons. Racine at 
St. Cyr. The Duke of Shrewsbury 
and "Mr. Prior, our envoy, and 
all the English nobility here were 
present at it. (The Viscount Castle- 
wood’s passports) were refused to him, 
’t was said ; his Lordship being sued 


252 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


by a goldsmith for Vaisselle plate, and 
a pearl necklace supplied to Madem- 
oiselle Meruel of tlie French Com- 
edy. ’T is a pity such news should 
get abroad (and travel to England) 
about our young nobility here. Mad- 
emoiselle Meruel has been sent to 
the Fort FEvesque ; they say she has 
ordered not only plate, but furniture, 
and a chariot and horses (under that 
lord’s name), of which extravagance 
his unfortunate Viscountess knows 
nothing. 

“ (His Majesty will be) eighty-two 
^ars of age on his next birthday. 
The Court prepares to celebrate it 
with a great feast. Mr. Prior is in a 
sad way about their refusing at home 
to send him his plate. All here 
admired my Lord Viseount’s portrait, 
and said it was a masterpiece of 
liigaud. Have you seen it ? It is (at 
the Lady Castle wood’s house in Ken- 
sington Square). I think no English 
painter could produce such a piece. 

“ Our poor friend the Abbe hath 
been at the Bastile, but is now trans- 
ported to the Conciergerie (where his 
friends may visit him. They are to 
ask for) a remission of his sentence 
soon. Let us hope the poor rogue 
will have repented in prison. 

“(The Lord Castlewood) has had 
the affair of the plate made up, and 
departs for England. 

“Is not this a dull letter? I have 
a cursed headache with drinking with 
Mat and some more overnight, and 
tipsy or sober am 

“ Thine ever .” 

All this letter, save some dozen of 
words which I have put above between 
brackets, was mere idle talk, though 
the substance of the letter Avas as 
important as any letter Avell could be. 
It told those that had the key, that 
The King will take the Viscount Castle- 
wood's jmssports and travel to England 
under that lord's name. His Majfstji 
tvill be at the Ixidg Casfleirood's house 
in Kensington Srpiare, where his friends 
mag visit him: they are to ask for the 
Lord Castlewood. This note may 


have passed under IMr. Prior’s eyes, 
and those of our new allies the 
French, and taught them nothing; 
though it ex|)lains sufficiently to 
persons in London Avhat the event 
was which Avas about to hajipcn, as 
’t AAdll sliOAV those Avho read my 
memoirs a hundred 3 'ears hence, Avhat 
Avas that errand on Avhich Colonel 
Esmond of late had been busy. 
Silently and swiftly to do that about 
which others Avere conspiring, and 
thousands of Jacobites all over the 
country clumsil}* caballing ; alone to 
effect that Avhich the leaders here AAcre 
only talking about ; to bring the 
Prince of Wales into the country 
openly in the face of all, under Eo- 
lingbroke’s Aery eyes, the walls jila- 
carded Avith the proclamation signed 
with the Secretary’s name, and offer- 
ing fiA'e hundred pounds’ rcAvard for 
his apprehension : this Avas a stroke, 
the playing and Avinning of Avhich 
might well giAe any adventurous 
spirit pleasure : the loss of the stake 
might invoh’e a heaAy penalty, but 
all our family Avere eager to risk that 
for the glorious chance of winning 
the game. 

Nor should it be called a game, 
save perhaps with the chief player, 
Avho AA'as not more or less sceptical 
than most public men Avith wl;om he 
had acquaintance in that age. (Is 
there eAer a public man in England 
that altogether believes in his party ? 
Is there one, hoAA'ever doubtful, that 
Avill not fight for it ?) Young Frank 
Avas read}" to fight Avithout much 
thinking, he was a Jacobite as his fa- 
ther before him was ; all the Esmonds 
Avere Royalists. Give him but the 
word, he Avould cry, “ God save King 
James ! ” before the palace guard, or 
at the Maypole in the Strand; and 
Avith respect to the women, as is usual 
Avith them, ’t Avas not a question of 
party but of faith ; their belief Avas a 
passion ; either Esmond’s tnistress or 
her daughter Avould have died for it 
cheerfully. I have laughed often, 
talking of King William’s reign, and 
said 1 thought Lady Castlewood Avas 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


253 


dlsap'iolntcd tho King did not perse- 
cute the family more ; and those who 
know the nature of tvomen may fancy 
for themselves, what needs not here 
be written down, the rapture with 
■which these neophytes received the 
mystery when made known to them ; 
the eagerness with which they looked 
forward to its completion ; the rever- 
ence which they paid the minister who 
initiated them into that secret Truth, 
now known only to a few, but pres- 
ently to reign over the world. Sure 
there is no bound to the trustingness 
of women. Look at Arria worship- 

} )ing the drunken clodpate of a hus- 
)and who beats her ; look at Cornelia 
treasuring as a jewel in her maternal 
heart the oaf her son ; I have known 
a woman preach Jesuit’s bark, and 
afterwards Dr. Berkeley’s tar-water, 
as though to swallow them were a 
divine decree, and to refuse them no 
better than blasphemy. 

On his return from France Colonel 
Esmond put himself at the head of 
this little knot of fond conspirators. 
No death or torture he knew would 
frighten them out of their constancy. 
When he detailed his plan for bring- 
ing the King back, his elder mistress 
thought that that Kestoration was to 
be attributed under Heaven to the 
Castlewood family and to its chief, 
and she worshipped and loved Es- 
mond, if that could be, more than 
ever she had done. She doubted not 
for one moment of the success of his 
scheme, to mistrust which would have 
seemed impious in her eyes. And as 
for Beatrix, when she became ac- 
quainted with the plan, and joined it, 
as she did with all her heart, she gave 
Esmond one of her searching bright 
looks. “ Ah, Harry,” says she, 

“ why Avere you not the head of our 
house ? You arc the only one fit to 
raise it; why do you give that silly 
boy the name and the honor? But 
’t is so in the world ; those get the 
prize that don’t deserve or care for it. 

I wish I could give you your silly 
prize, cousin, but I can’t; I have 
tried, and 1 can’t.” And she went ( 


I away, shaking her head mournfully, 
but always, it seemed to Esmond, that 
her liking and respect for him was 
greatly increased, since she knew 
Avhat capability he had both to act 
and bear ; to do and to forego. 

— • — 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE ORIGINAL OF THE PORTRAIT 
COMES TO ENGLAND. 

’Twas announced in the family 
that my Lord Castlewood ivould ar- 
rive, having a confidential French 
gentleman in his suite, who acted as 
secretary to his Lordship, and who 
being a Papist, and a foreigner of 
a good family, though now in rather 
a menial place, would have his meals 
served in his chamber, and not with 
the domestics of the house. The Vis- 
countess gave up her bedchamber 
contiguous to her daughter’s, and 
having a large convenient closet at- 
tached to it, in which a bed was put 
up, ostensibly for Monsieur Baptiste, 
the Frenchman ; though, ’t is needless 
to say, when the doors of the apart- 
ments were locked, and the two guests 
retired Avithin it, the young Viscount 
became the servant of the illustrious 
Prince Avhom he entertained, and gave 
up gladly the more conA^enient and 
airy chamber and bed to his master. 
Madam Beatrix also retired to the 
upper region, her chamber being con- 
A’-erted into a sitting-room for my Lord. 
The better to.carry the deceit, Beatrix 
affected to grumble before the ser- 
vants, and to be jealous that she Avas 
turned out of her chamber to make 
Avay for my Lord. 

No small preparations Averc made, 
vou may be sure, and no slight tremor 
of expectation caused the hearts of 
the gentle ladies of CastleAvood to 
flutter, before the arrival of the per- 
sonages Avho Avere about to honor 
their house. The chamber Avas orna- 
mented Avith floAvers ; the bed covered 
with the very finest of linen ; the tAvm 
ladies insisting on making it them- 


254 


THE HISTOEY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


selves, and kneeling down at the bed- 
side and kissing the sheets out of re- 
spect for the web that was to hold the 
sacred person of a king. The toilet 
was of silver and crystal ; there was 
a copy of “ Eikon Basilike ’’ laid on 
the writing-table; a portrait of the 
martyred King hung always over the 
mantel, having a sword of my poor 
Lord Castlewood underneath it, and 
a little picture or emblem which the 
widow loved always to have before 
lier eyes on waking, and in which the 
hair of her lord and her two children 
was w'orked together. Her books of 
private devotions, as they were all of 
the English Church, she carried away 
with her to the upper apartment, 
which she destined for herself. The 
ladies showed IMr. Esmond, when 
they were completed, the fond jn’epara- 
tions they had made. ’T was then 
Beatrix knelt down and kissed the 
linen sheets. As for her mother. 
Lady Castlewood made a courtesy at 
the door, as she would have done to 
the altar on entering a church, and 
owned that she considered the cham- 
ber in a manner sacred. 

The company in the servants’ hall 
never for a moment supposed that 
these preparations were made for any 
other person than the young Viscount, 
the lord of the house, whom his fond 
mother had been for so many years 
without seeing. Both ladies were per- 
fect housewives, having the greatest 
skill in the making of confections, 
scented Avaters, &c., and keeping a not- 
able superintendence over the kitchen. 
Calves enough Avere killed to feed an 
army of prodigal sons, Esmond 
thought, and laughed Avhen he came 
to Avait on the ladies, on the day 
Avhen the guests Avere to arriA’ e, to find 
two pairs of the finest and roundest 
arms to be seen in England (my Lady 
CastleAA'ood AAas remarkable for this 
beauty of her person), coA’ered Avith 
flour up above the elboAvs, and pre- 
paring paste and turning rolling-pins 
in the housekeeper’s closet. The 
guest Avould not arrive till supper- 
time, and my Lord Avould prefer haA"- 


ing that meal in his OAvn chamber. 
Y^ou may be sure the brightest plate 
of the house Avas laid out there, and 
can understand Avhy it was that the 
ladies insisted that they alone Avould 
Avait upon the young chief of the 
family. 

Taking horse. Colonel Esmond 
rode rapidly to Rochester, and there 
aAvaited the King in that very tOAvn 
Avhere his father had last set his foot 
on the English shore. A room had 
been provided at an inn there for my 
Lord CastleAvood and his servant ; and 
Colonel Esmond timed his ride so 
Avell that he had scarce been half an 
hour in the place, and Avas looking 
over the balcony into the yard of the 
inn, Avhen tAvo travellers rode in at 
the inn gate, and the Colonel running 
doAvn, the next moment embraced his 
dear young lord. 

My Lord’s companion, acting the 
part of a domestic, dismounted, and 
Avas for holding the Viscount’s stir- 
rup; but Colonel Esmond, calling to 
his OAvn man, Avho Avas in the court, 
bade him take the horses and settle 
Avith the lad Avho had ridden the post 
along Avith the tAvo traA^ellers, crying 
out in a cavalier tone in the French 
language to my Lord’s companion, 
and affecting to grumble that my 
Lord’s felloAv Avas a Frenchman, and 
did not knoAV the money or habits of 
the country : — “ My man Avill see 
to the horses, Baptiste,” sa3"s Colonel 
Esmond : “ do you understand Eng- 
lish ? ” “ Very leetle ? ” “ So, fol- 

loAv my Lord and Avait upon him at 
dinner in his OAvn room.” The land- 
lord and his people came up presently 
bearing the dishes ; ’t Avas Avell they 
made a noise and stir in the gallery, 
or they might have found Colonel 
Esmond on his- knee before Lord 
CastleAvood’s seiwant, AA'elcoming his 
Majesty to his kingdom, and kissing 
the hand of the King. We told the 
landlord that the Frenchman Avouhl 
Avait on his master; and Esmond’s 
man Avas ordered to keep sentry in 
the gallery -Avithout the door. The 
Prince dined with a good appetite. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


255 


laughing and talking very gayly, and 
condescendingly bidtling liis two com- 
panions to sit with him at table. He 
was in better spirits than poor Frank 
Castle wood, who Esmond thought 
might be woe-begone on account of 
parting with his divine Clotilda ; but 
the Prince wishing to take a short 
siesta after dinner, and retiring to an 
inner chamber where there was a bed, 
the cause of Poor Frank’s discomfit- 
ure came out; and bursting into 
tears, with many expressions of fond- 
ness, friendship, and humiliation, the 
faithful lad gave his kinsman to un- 
derstand that he now knew all the 
truth, and the sacrifices which Colonel 
Esmond had made for him. 

Seeing no good in acquainting 
poor Frank with that secret, Mr. Es- 
mond had entreated his mistress also 
not to reveal it to her son. The Prince 
had told the poor lad all as they were 
riding from Dover : “ I had as lief 
he had shot me, cousin," Frank said ; 
“ I knew you were the best, and the 
bravest, and the kindest of all men " 
(so the enthusiastic young fellow went 
on ) ; “ but I never thought I owed 
you what I do, and can scarce bear 
the weight of the obligation." 

“ I stand in the place of your fa- 
ther," says Mr. Esmond, kindly, 
“ and sure a father may dispossess 
himself in favor of his son. I abdi- 
cate the twopenny crown, and invest 
you with the kingdom of Brentford ; 
don’t be a fool and cry ; you make a 
much taller and handsomer viscount 
than ever I could." But the fond 
boy, with oaths and protestations, 
laughter and incoherent outbreaks of 
passionate emotion, could not be got, 
for some little time, to put up with 
Esmond’s raillery; wanted to kneel 
down to him, and kissed his hand ; 
asked him and implored him to order 
something, to bid Castlewood give 
his own life or take somelmdy else’s ; 
anything, so ihat he might show his 
gratitude for the generosity Esmond 
showed him. 

“ The K , he laughed," Frank 

said, pointing to the door where the 


sleeper was, and speaking in a low 
tone. “ I don’t think he should have 
laughed as he told me the story. As 
we rode along from Dover, talking in 
French, he spoke about you, and 
your coming to him at Bar ; he called 
you ‘ le grand serieux,’ Don Bellianis 
of Greece, and I don’t know what 
names ; mimicking your manner ’’ 
(here Castlewood laughed himself), 
— “ and he did it very well. lie 
seems to sneer at everything. He is 
not like a king : somehow, Harry, I 
fancy you are like a king. He does 
not seem to think what a stake w'e 
are all playing. He would have 
stopped at Canterbury to run after a 
barmaid there, had I not implored him 
to come on. He hath a house at 
Chaillot, where he used to go and 
bury himself lor weeks away from the 
Queen, and with all sorts of bad com- 
pany," says Frank, with a demure 
look ; “ yo\i may smile, but I am not 
the wild fellow I was ; no, no, I have 
been taught better," says Castlewood 
devoutly, making a sign on his breast. 

“ Tliou art my dear brave boy," 
says Colonel Esmond, touched at die 
young fellow’s simplicity, “ and there 
will be a noble gentleman at Castle- 
Avood so long as my Frank is there.” 

The impetuous young lad was for 
going down on his knees again, Avith 
another explosion of gratitude, but 
that Ave heard the voice from the next 
chamber of the august sleeper, just 
Avaking, calling out : — “ FNi, La- 
Fleur, un verre d’eau ! ’’ His Majes- 
ty came out yaAvning : — “A pest,” 
says he, “ upon your English ale, ’tis 
so strong that, ma foi, it hath turned 
my head." 

The effect of the ale '^as like a 
spur upon our horses, and Ave rode 
very quickly to London, reaching 
Kensington at nightfall. Mr. Es- 
mond’s servant Avas left behind at 
Rochester, to take care of the tired 
horses, Avhilst avc had fresh beasts 
proA’ided along the road. And gal- 
loping by the Prince’s side the Colo- 
nel explained to the Prince of Wales 
what his movements had been ; Avho 


256 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


the friends were that knew of the ex- 
pedition ; whom, as Esmond con- 
ceived, the Prince should trust ; en- 
treating him, above all, to maintain 
the very closest secreey until the time 
should come when his Royal High- 
ness should appear. The town 
swarmed Avith friends of the Prince’s 
cause ; there Avcre scores of corre- 
spondents with St. Germains ; Jacob- 
ites known anti secret ; great in sta- 
tion and humble ; about the Court 
and the Queen ; in the Parliament, 
Church, and among the merchants in 
the City. The Prince had friends 
numberless in the army, in the Privy 
Council, and the Officers of State. 
The great object, as it seemed, to the 
small band of persons who had con- 
certed that bold stroke, who had 
brought the Queen’s brother into his 
native country, was, that his visit 
should remain unknown till the prop- 
er time came, when his presence 
should surprise friends and enemies 
alike ; and the latter should be found 
so unprepared and disunited, that 
they should not find time to attack 
him. We feared more from his 
friends than from his enemies. The 
lies and tittle-tattle sent over to St. 
Germains by the Jacobite agents 
about London had done an incalcu- 
lable mischief to his cause, and wo- 
fully misguided him, and it Avas from 
these especially, that the persons en- 
gaged in the present A'cnture AA'cre 
anxious to defend the chief actor in it.* 
The party reached London by 
nightfall, leaving their horses at the 
Posting-House over against Westmin- 
ster, and being ferried over the Avater, 
Avhere Lady Esmond’s coach Avas 
already in Avaiting. In another hour 
Ave Avcrc all landed at Kensington, and 
the mistress of the house had that 

* The manapjers were the Bishop, who can- 
not be hurt by having his name mentioned, 
a very active and ioyal Nonconformist Di- 
vine, a lady in the highest favor at Court, 
with whom Beatrix Esmond had communica- 
tion, and two noblemen of the greatest rank 
and a member of the House of Commons, 
who was Implicated in more transactions 
than one in behalf of the Stuart family. 


satisfaction Avhich her heart had 
yearned after for many ycjtrs, once 
more to embrace her son, Avho, on his 
side, Avith all his AvavAvardness, ever 
retained a most tender affection for 
his parent. 

She did not refrain from this ex- 
pression of her feeling, though the 
domestics AA^ere by, and my Lord 
Castlewood’s attendant stood in the 
hail. Esmond had to whisper to him 
in French to take his hat off. Mon- 
sieur Baptiste was constantly neglect- 
ing his part with an inconceivable 
levity : more than once on the ride to 
London, little observations of the 
stranger, light remarks, and Avoids 
betokening the greatest ignorance of 
the country the Prince came to 
goA^ern, had hurt the susceptibility of 
the tAvo gentlemen forming his escort ; 
nor could cither help OAvning in his 
secret mind that they Avould hav'e had 
his behavior othcrAvise, and that the 
laughter and the lightness, not to say 
license, Avhich characterized his talk, 
scarce befitted such a great prince, 
and such a solemn occasion. Not 
but that he could act at proper times 
Avith spirit and .dignity. He had be- 
haA'ed, as Ave all knew, in a A’cry cour- 
ageous manner on the field. Esmond 
had seen a copy of the letter the 
Prince had Avrit Avith his OAvn hand 
Avhen urged by his friends in England 
to abjure his religion, and admired 
that manly and magnanimous reply 
by Avhich he refused to yield to the 
temptation. Monsieur Baptiste took 
off his hat, blushing at the hint Colonel 
Esmond ventured to give him, and 
said : — “ Tenez, elle est jolie, la petite 
mere. Foi dc Chevalier ! elle est 
charmante ; mais I’autre, qui est 
cette nympho, cet astro qui brille, cette 
Diane qui descend sur nous ? ” 
And he started back, and pushed 
forward, as Beatrix Avas descending 
the stair. She Avas in colors for the 
first time at her OAvn house ; she Avore 
the diamonds Esmond gave her; 
it had been agreed betAveen them, that 
she should wear these brilliants on 
the day Avhen the King should enter 



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Monsie^ir Baptiste, 





THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


257 


the house, and a queen she looked, 
radiant in charms, and magnificent 
and imperial in beauty. 

Castlewood himself was startled by 
that beauty and splendor ; be stepped 
back and gazed at his sister as 
though he had not been aware before 
(nor was he very likely) how perfect- 
ly lovely she was, and I thought 
blushed as he embraced her. The 
Prince could not keep his eyes off 
her ; he quite forgot his menial part, 
though he had been schooled to it, 
and a little light portmanteau pre- 
pared expressly that he sliould carry 
It. He pressed forward before my 
Lord Viscount. ' T Avas lucky the 
servants’ eyes Avere busy in other 
directions, or they must liave seen 
that this Avas no servant, or at least a 
A'cry insolent and rude one. 

Again Colonel Esmond Av'as obliged 
to cry out “Baptiste,’'’ in a loud im- 
perious voice, “ have a care to the 
valisse ” ; at which hint the Avilful 
young man ground his teeth together 
Avith something A'cry like a curse 
betAveen them, and then gaA'e a brief 
look of anything but pleasure to his 
Mentor. Being reminded, hoAvcA'er, 
he shouldered the little portmanteau, 
and carried it up the stair, Esmond 
preceding him and a servant AA'ith 
lighted tapers. He flung doAvn his 
burden sulkily in the bedchamber; — 
“ A Prince that Avill Avear a croAvn 
must Avear a mask,” says Mr. Es- 
mond in French. 

“ Ah peste ! I sec hoAV it is,” says 
Monsieur Baptiste, continuing the 
talk in French. “ The Great Serious 
is seriously ” — “ alarmed for Mon- 
sieur Baptiste,” broke in the Colonel. 
Esmond neither liked the tone Avith 
Avhich the Prince spoke of the ladies, 
nor the eyes Avith Avhich he regarded 
them. 

The bedchamber and the tAvo 
rooms adjoining it, the closet and the 
apartment Avhich Avas to be called my 
Lord’s parlor, .Averc already lighted 
and aAvaiting their occupier ; and the 
collation laid for my Lord’s supper. 
Lord CastleAVOod and his mother and 


sister came up the stair a minute 
afterAvards, and, so soon as tlic do- 
mestics had quitted the apartment, 
CastlcAvood and Esmond uncovered, 
and the tAvo ladies Avent doAvn on 
their knees before the Prince, Avlio 
graciously gave a hand to cacb. He 
looked his part of prince much more 
naturally than that of servant, Avhich 
he had just been trying, and raised 
them both Avith a great deal of nobil- 
ity, as Avcll as kindness in his air. 
“ Madam,” says he, “ my mother 
Avill thank your Ladyship for your 
hospitality to her son ; for you, mad- 
am,” turning to Beatrix, “ I cannot 
bear to sec so much beauty in such a 
posture. You Avill betray Monsieur 
Baptiste if you kneel to him ; sure 
’t is his place rather to kneel to you.” 

A liglit shone out of her eyes; a 
gleam bright enough to kindle pas- 
sion in any breast. There Avere times 
Avhen this creature Avas so handsome, 
that she seemed, as it AA'crc, like Venus 
rcA'caling herself a goddess ina flash of 
brightness. She ap2)cared *so iioav ; 
radiant, and Avith eyes bright Avith a 
Avonderful lustre. A pang, as of rage 
and jealousy, shot through Esmond’s 
heart, as he caught the look she gaA'e 
the Prince ; and he clenched his hand 
involuntaiily and looked across to 
CastlcAvood, Avhose eyes ansAA'cred his 
alarm-signal, and Avere also on the 
alert. The Prince gave his subjects 
an audience of a fcAv minutes, and 
then the tAvo ladies and Colonel Es- 
mond quitted tlie chamber. Lady 
CastlcAvood pressed his hand as they 
descended the stair,' and the three 
AV'ent doAvn to the loAA'er rooms, Avhere 
they Avaited aAvhile till the travellers 
above should be refreshed and ready 
for their meal. 

Esmond looked at Beatrix, blazing 
Avith her jeAvels on her beautiful neck. 
“ I liaA’C kept my Avord,” says he : 
“ And I mine,” says Beatrix, looking 
doAvn on the diamonds. 

“ Were I the IMogul Emperor,” 
says the Colonel, “you should have 
all that AA'ere dug out of Golconda.” 

“ These are a great deal too good 

Q 


258 


THE IIISTOKY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


for me,” says Beatrix, dropping her 
head on her beautiful breast, — “so 
are you all, all ! ” And when she 
looked up again, as she did in a mo- 
ment, and after a sigh, her eyes, as 
they gazed at her c6usin, wore that 
melancholy and inscrutable look which 
^twas always impossible to sound. 

When the time came for the supper, 
of which we were advertised by a 
knocking overhead. Colonel Esmond 
and the two ladies went to the upper 
a])artmcnt, where the Prince alresuly 
was, and by his side the young Vis- 
count, of exactly the same age, shape, 
and with features not dissimilar, 
though Prank’s were the handsomer 
of the two. The Prince sat down 
and bade the ladies sit. The gentle- 
men remained standing : there was, 
indeed, but one more cover laid at the 
table : — “ Which of you will take it ? ” 
says he. 

“ The head of our house,” says La- 
dy Castlewood, taking her son’s hand, 
and looking towards Colonel Esmond 
with a bwv and a great tremor of the 
voice; “the Marquis of Esmond will 
have the honor of serving the King.” 

“ I shall have the honor of waiting 
on his Royal Highness,” says Colonel 
Esmond, filling a cup of wine, and, 
as the fashion of that day was, he 
presented it to the King on his knee. 

“I drink to my hostess and her 
family,” says the Prince, with no ver}'- 
wtH pleased air ; but the cloud passed 
immediately off his face, and he talked 
to the ladies in a lively, rattling strain, 
quite undisturbed by poor Mr. Es- 
mond’s yellow countenance, that, I 
dare say, looked very glum. 

When the time came to take leave, 
Esmond marched homewards to his 
lodgings, and met Mr. Addison on the 
road that night, walking to a cottage 
he had at Fulham, the moon shining 
on his handsome serene face : — 
“ What cheer, brother 'i ” says Addi- 
son, laughing : “ I thought it was a 
footpad advancing in the dark, and 
behold ’t is an old friend. We may 
shake hands. Colonel, in the dark, ’tis 
better than fighting by daylight. 


Why should we quarrel, because I 
am a Whig and thou art a Tory ? 
Turn thy steps and walk with me to 
Fulham, where there is a nightingale 
still singing in the garden, and a cool 
bottle in a cave I know of; you shall 
drink to the Pretender if you like, and 
I will drink my liquor my own Avay : 
I have had enough of good liquor? 
— no, never ! There is no such word 
as enough as a stopper for good wine. 
Thou wilt not come ? Come any day, 
come soon. Y'ou know I remember 
Simois and the Sigeia Ullus, and the 
prcelia mixta mero, mixta mero,” lie re- 
peated, with ever so slight a touch of 
merum in his voice, and walked back a 
little way on the road with Esmond, 
bidding the other remember he was 
always his friend, and indebted to him 
for his aid in the “ Campaign ” poem. 
And very likely IMr. Under-Secretary 
Avould have stepped in and taken 
t’other bottle at the Colonel’s lodging, 
had the latter invited him, but Es- 
mond’s mood was none of the gayest, 
and he bade his friend an inhospitable 
good-night at the door. 

“I have done the deed,” thought 
he, sleepless, and looking out into the 
night ; “ he is here, and I have brought 
him ; he and Beatrix arc sleeping 
under the same roof now. Whom 
did I mean to serve in bringing him ? 
Was it the Prince ? was it Henry Es- 
mond ? Had I not best have joined 
the manly creed of Addison yonder, 
that scouts the old doctrine of right 
divine, that boldly declares that Par- 
liament and people consecrate the 
Sovereign, not bishops, nor genealo- 
gies, nor oils, nor coronations.” The 
eager gaze of the young Prince, watch- 
ing every movement of Beatrix, haunt- 
ed Esmond and pursued him. ’J'he 
Prince’s figure appeared before him in 
his feverish dreams many times that 
night. He wished the deed undone 
for which he had labored so. He was 
not the first that has regretted his own 
act, or brought about his own undoing. 
Undoing ? Should he write that word 
in his late years ? No, on his knees 
before Heaven, rather be thankful for 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


259 


what then he deemed his misfortune, 
and which hath caused the whole sub- 
sequent happiness of his life. 

Esmond’s man, honest John Loek- 
wood, had served his master and the 
family all his life, and the Colonel 
knew that he could answer for John’s 
fidelity as for his own. John returned 
with the horses from Kocliester be- 
times the next morning, and the Colo- 
nel gave him to understand that on 
going to Kensington, where he was 
free of the servants’ hall, and indeed 
courting Miss Beatrix’s maid, he was 
to ask no questions, and betray no sur- 
prise, but to vouch stoutly that the 
young gentleman he should see in a 
red coat there was my Lord Viscount 
Castlewood, and that his attendant 
in gray was Monsieur Baptiste the 
Frenchman. He was to tell Ids friends 
in the kitchen such stories as he re- 
membered of my Lord Viscount’s 
youth at Castlewood ; what a wild boy 
he was ; how he used to drill Jack and 
cane him, before ever he was a soldier ; 
everything, in fine, he knew respect- 
ing my Lord Viscount’s early days. 
Jack’s ideas of painting had not been 
much cultivated during his residence 
in Flanders with his master ; and, be- 
fore my young lord’s return, he had 
hecn easily got to believe that the pic- 
ture brought over from Paris, and 
now hanging in Lady Castlewood’s 
drawing-room, was a perfect likeness 
of her son, the young lord. And the 
domestics having all seen the picture 
many times, and catching but a mo- 
mentary imperfect glimpse of the two 
strangers on the night of their arrival, 
never had a reason to doubt the fidel- 
ity of the portrait ; and next day when 
they saw the original of the piece hab- 
ited exactly as he was represented in 
the painting, Avith the same periwig, 
ribbons, and uniform of the Guard, 
quite naturally addressed the gentle- 
man as my Lord Castlewood, my 
Lady Viscountess’s son. 

The secretary of the night previous 
was now the Viscount; the Viscount 
wore the secretary’s gray frock ; and 
John Lockwood Avas instructed to hint 


to the Avorld beloAv stairs that my Lord 
being a Papist, and very devout in 
that religion, his attendant might be 
no other than his chaplain from Bru- 
xelles ; hence, if he took his meals in 
my Lord’s company there Avas little 
reason for surprise. Frank Avas far- 
ther cautioned to speak Fhiglish Avith 
a foreign accent, Avhich task he per- 
formed indiffei'ently well, and this 
caution was the more necessary be- 
cause the Prince himself scarce spoke 
our language like a native of the 
island ; and John LockAvood laughed 
with the folks below stairs at the man- 
ner in Avhich my Lord, after five years 
abroad, sometimes forgot his OAvn 
tongue and spoke it like a F'rench- 
man. “I warrant,” says he, “that 
with the English beef and beer, his 
Lordship Avill soon get back the proper 
use of his mouth ” ; atid, to do his 
Lordship justice, he took to beer and 
beef very kindly. 

The Prince drank so much, and Avas 
so loud and imprudent in his talk af- 
ter his drink, that Esmond often trem- 
bled for him. His meals Avere served 
as much as possible in his own cham- 
ber, though frequently he made his 
appearance in Lady CastleAvood’s par- 
lor and draAving-room, calling Beatrix 
“sister,” and her Ladyship “ mother,” 
or “ madam,” before the servants. 
And, choosing to act entirely up to 
the part of brother and son, the 
Prince sometimes saluted Mrs. Bea- 
trix and Lady Castlewood Avith a free- 
dom which his secretary did not like, 
and which, for his part, set Colonel 
Esmond tearing Avith rage. 

The guests had not be'en three days 
in the house Avhen poor Jack Lock- 
wood came with a rueful countenance 
to his master, and said : “ My Lord — 
that is the gentleman — has fjeen tam- 
yjering Avith Mrs. Lucy (Jack’s SAveet- 
heart), and giA'en her guineas and a 
kiss.” I fear that Colonel Esmond’s 
mind Avas rather relieved than other- 
Avise Avhen he found that the ancillary 
beauty was the one Avhom the Prince 
had selected. His royal tastes Avere 
known to lie that way, and continued 


260 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


so in after life. The heir of one of the 
greatest names, of the greatest king- 
doms, and of the greatest misfortunes 
in Euro])e, was often content to lay 
the dignity of his birth and grief ^at 
the wooden shoes of a French cham- 
bermaid, and to repent afterwards 
(for he Svas very devout ) in ashes tak- 
en from the dust-pan. is for mor- 
tals such as these that nations suffer, 
that parties struggle, that warriors 
fight and bleed. A year afterwards 
gallant heads were falling, and Niths- 
dale in escape, and Derwentwatcr on 
the scafibld ; whilst the heedless in- 
grate, for wliom they risked and lost 
all, Avas tippling with his seraglio of 
mistresses in his petite maison of Chail- 
lot. 

Blushing to be forced to bear sueh 
an errand, Esmond had to go to the 
Prince and warn him that the girl 
whom his Highness was bribing Avas 
John LockAvood’s SAveetheart, an hon- 
est resolute man, Avho had ser\'ed in 
six compaigns, and feared nothing, 
and Avho kncAv that the person call- 
ing himself Lord Castlcwood Avas not 
his yoiing master : and the Colonel 
besought the Prince to consider Avhat 
the effect of a single man’s jealousy 
might be, and to think of other de- 
signs he had in hand, more important 
than the seduction of a Avaiting-maid, 
and the humiliation of a brave man. 

Ten times, perhaps, in the course 
of as many days, Mr. Esmond had to 
Avarn the royal young adventurer of 
some imprudence or some freedom. 
He received these remonstrances very 
testily, saA'e perhaps in this affair of 
poor LockAA'ood’s, Avhen he deigned 
to burst out a-laughing, and said, 
“ What ! the souhreite has peached to 
the amoureux, and Crispin is angrj’’, 
and Crispin has serA'ed, and Crispin 
has been a eorporal, has he 1 Tell 
him Ave Avill reAvard his valor Avith a 
pair of colors, and recompense his 
fidelity.” 

Colonel Esmond A’^entured to utter 
some other Avords of entreaty, but the 
Prince, stamping imperiously, cried 
out, “ Assez, milord : je m’ennuye a 


la prechc ; I am not come to London 
to go to the sermon.” And he com- 
plained aftei’AA'ards to CastlcAvood, 
that “ le petit jaune, le noir Colonel, 
le Marquis Misanthrope” (by Avhich 
facetious names his Boyal Highness 
Avas pleased to designate Colonel Es- 
mond), “ fatigued himAvith his grand 
airs and virtuous homilies,” 

The Bishop of Bochester, and other 
gentlemen engaged in the transaction 
Avhich had brought the Prince over, 
Avaited upon his Royal Highness, con- 
stantly asking for my Lord Castle- 
AA'ood on their arrival at Kensington, 
and being openly conducted to his 
Royal Highness in that eharacter, 
Avho received them either in my Lady’s 
draAving-room beloAv, or above in his 
OAvn apartment ; and all implored 
him to quit the house as little as pos- 
sible, and to wait there till the signal 
should be given for him to appear. 
The ladies entertained him at cards, 
over Avhich amusement he spent many 
hours in each day and night. He 
passed many hours more in drinking, 
during which time he Avould rattle 
and talk A’ery agreeably, and especial- 
ly if the Colonel was absent, Avhose 
presence always seemed to frighten 
him; and the poor “ Colonel Noir” 
took that hint as a command accord- 
ingly, and seldom intruded his black 
face upon the convivial hours of this 
august young prisoner. Except for 
those feAv persons of Avhom the porter 
had the list. Lord CastlcAvood was de- 
nied to all friends of the house Avho 
waited on his Lordship. The wound 
he had received had broke out again 
from his journey on horseback, so the 
Avorld and the domestics Avere in- 
formed. And Doctor A ,* his 

physician (I shall not mention his 
name, but he Avas physician to the 
Queen, of the Scots nation, and a 
man remarkable for his benevolence 
as Avell as his Avit), gave orders that 
he should be kept perfectly quiet until 
the Avound should heal. With this 

* There can be very little doubt tliat the 
Doctor mentioned by my dear father was the 
famous Dr. Arbuthnot — It. E. W. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


261 


gentleman, who was one of the most 
active and influential of our party, 
and the others before spoken of, the 
whole secret lay ; and it was kept witli 
so much faithfulness, and the story 
we told so simple and natural, that 
there was no likelihood of a discovery 
except , from the imprudence of the 
Prince himself, and an adventurous 
levity that we had the greatest diffi- 
culty to control. As for Lady Castle- 
wood, although she scarce spoke a 
word, ’t was easy to gather from her 
demeanor, and one or two hints she 
dropped, how deep her mortification 
was at finding the hero whom she had 
chosen to worship all her life (and 
whose restoration had formed almost 
the most sacred part of her prayers) 
no more than a man, and not a good 
one. She thought misfortune might 
’have chastened him ; but that in- 
structress had rather rendei'cd him 
callous than humble. His devotion, 
which was quite real, kept him from 
no sin he had a mind to. His talk 
showed good-humor, gayety, even wit 
enough ; but there was a levity in his 
acts and words that he had brought 
from among those libertine devotees 
with whom he had been bred, and 
that shocked the simplicity and purity 
of the English lady, whose guest he 
was. Esmond spoke his mind to 
Beatrix pretty freely about the Prince, 
getting her brother to put in a word 
of warning. Beatrix was entirely of 
their opinion ; she thought he was 
very light, very light and reckless ; 
she could not even see the good looks 
Colonel Esmond had spoken of. The 
Prince had bad teeth, and a decided 
squint. How could we say he did 
not squint ? His eyes were fine, but 
there was certainly a cast in them. 
She rallied him at table with wonder- 
ful wit; she spoke of him invariably 
as of a mere boy ; she was more fond 
of Esmond than ever, praised him 
to her brother, praised him to the 
Prince, when his Royal Highness was 
pleased to sneer at the Colonel, and 
warmly espoused his cause : “ And if 
your Majesty does not give him the 


Garter his fiither had, when the 
Marquis of Esmond comes to your 
Majesty’s court, I will hang myself 
in my own garters, or will cry my 
eyes out.” “ Rather than lose timsc,” 
says the Prince, “ he shall be made 
Archbishop and Colonel of the 
Guard ” (it Avas Prank Castle wood 
who told me of this conversation over 
their supper). 

“ Yes,” cries she, with one of her 
laughs, — I fancy I hear it now. 
Thirty years afterwards I hear that 
delightful music. “ Yes, he shall be 
Archbishop of Esmond and Marquis 
of Canterbury.” 

“And what will your Ladyship 
be?” says the Prince; “you have 
but to clioose your place.” 

“ I,” says Beatrix, “ will be mother 
of the maids to the Queen of his Maj- 
esty King James the Third, — Vive le 
Roy ! ” and she made him a great 
courtesy, and drank a part of a glass 
of wine in his honor. 

“The Prince seized hold of the 
glass and drank the last drop of it,” 
Castlewood said, “ and my mother, 
looking very anxious, rose up and 
asked leave to retire. But that ’Trix 
is my mother’s daughter, Harry,” 
Frank continued, “ I don’t know 
what a horrid fear I should have of 
her. I wish — I wish this business 
were over. You are older than I am, 
and wiser, and better, and I owe you 
everything, and would die for you, — 
before George I Avould ; but I Avish 
the end of this were come.” 

Neither of us A^ery likely passed a 
tranquil night ; horrible doubts and 
torments racked Esmond’s soul ; 
’t Avas a scheme of personal ambition, 
a daring stroke for a selfish end, — he 
kncAV it. What cared he, in his heart, 
Avho was king ? Were not his very 
sympathies and secret convictions on 
the other side, — on the side of Peo- 
ple, Parliament, Freedom ? And 
here Avas he, engaged fora Prince that 
had scarce heard the Avord liberty ; 
that priests and Avomen, tyrants by 
nature, both made a tool of. The 
misanthrope was in no better humor 


• THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


202 

after liearing that story, and his grim 
face more black and yellow than 
ever. 


CHAPTER X. 

WE ENTERTAIN A VERY DISTIN- 
GUISHED GUEST AT KENSINGTON. 

Should any clew be found to the 
dark intrigues at the latter end of 
Queen Anne’s time, or any historian 
he inclined to follow it, ’t will be dis- 
covered, I have little doubt, that not 
one of the great personages about the 
Queen had a defined scheme of fiolicy, 
independent of that private and self- 
ish interest which each was bent on 
pursuing : St. John was for St. John, 
and Haidey for Oxford, and IMarl- 
borough for John Churchill, always ; 
and according as they could get help 
from St. Germains or Hanover, they 
sent over proffers of allegiance to the 
Princes there, or betrayed one to the 
other : one cause, or one sovereign, 
was as good as another to them, so 
that they could hold the best place 
under him ; and like Lockit and 
Peachem, the Newgate chiefs in the 
“ Rogues’ Opera ” Mr. Gay wrote af- 
terwards, had each in his hand docu- 
ments and proofs of treason which 
would hang the other, only he did not 
dare to use the weapon, for fear of 
that one Avhich his neighbor also car- 
ried in his pocket. Think of the 
great Marlborough, the greatest sub- 
ject in all the world, a conqueror of 
princes, that had marched victorious 
over Germany, Flanders, and France, 
that had given the law to sovereigns 
abroad, and been worshipped as a di- 
vinity at home, forced to sneak out of 
England, -- his credit, honors, places 
all taken from him ; his triends in the 
army broke and ruined ; and flying 
before Harley, as abject and powerless 
as a poor debtor before a bailiff with 
a writ. A paper, of which Harley got 
possession, and showing beyond doubt 
that the Duke was engaged with the 
Stuart family, was the weapon with 
which the Treasurer drove Marl- 


horongh out of the kingdom. He fled 
to Antwerp, and begun intriguing in- 
stantly on the other side, and came 
back to England, as all know, a 
Whig and a Hanoverian. 

Though the Treasurer turned out 
of tlie army and office every man, 
military or civil, known to be the 
J^uke’s friend, and gave the vacant 
posts among the Tory party ; he, too, 
was playing the double game between 
Hanover and St. Germains, await- 
ing the expected catastrophe of the 
Queen’s death to be Master of the 
State and offer it to either family tliat 
should bribe him best, or that the na- 
tion should declare for. Whichever 
the King was, Harley’s object was to 
reign over him ; and to this end he 
supplanted the former famous favor- 
ite, decried the actions of the war 
which had made Marlborough’s name 
illustrious, and disdained no more 
than the great fallen competitor of his 
the meanest arts, flatteries, intimida- 
tions, that would secure his power. 
If the greatest satirist the world ever 
hath seen had writ against Harley, 
and not for him, what a history had 
he left behind of the last years of 
Queen Anne’s reign ! But Swift, 
that scorned all mankind, and him- 
self not the least of all, had this merit 
of a faithful partisan, that he loved 
those chiefs who treated him Avell, 
and stuck by Harley bravely in his 
fall, as he gallantly had supported 
him in his better fortune. 

Incomparably more brilliant, more 
splendid, eloquent, accomplished than 
his rival, the great St. John could be 
as selfish as Oxford was, and could 
act the double part as skilfully as 
ambidextrous Churchill. He whoso 
talk was always of liberty no more 
shrunk from using persecution and the 
pillory against his opponents than if 
he had been at Lisbon and Grand 
Inquisitor. This lofty patriot was on 
his knees at Hanover and St. Ger- 
mains too ; notoriously of no religion, 
he toasted Church and Queen as 
boldly as the stupid Sacheverel, whom 
he used and laughed at ; and to serve 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


?63 


his turn, and to overthrow his enemy, 
he could intrij^ue, coax, bully, wheedle, 
fawn on the Court favorite," and creep 
np the back-stair as silently as Oxford, 
who supplanted Marlboroui>^h, and 
whom he himself supplanted. The 
crash of my Lord Oxford happened 
at this very time whereat my history 
is now arrived'. He was come to the 
very last days of his power, and the 
agent whom he employed to overthrow 
the conqueror of Blenheim, was now 
engaged to upset the conqueror’s 
conqueror, and hand over the staff of 
government to Bolin^broke, who had 
been panting to hold it. 

In expectation of the stroke that 
Avas now preparing, the Irish regi- 
ments in the French service Avere all 
brought round about Boulogne in 
Picardy, to pass over if need Avere 
Avith the Duke of BerAvick ; the soldiers 
of France no longer, but subjects of 
James the Third of England and 
Ireland King. The fidelity of the 
great mass of the Scots (though a 
most active, resolute, and gallant 
Whig party, admirably and energet- 
ically ordered and disciplined, Avas 
knoAvn to be in Scotland too) Avas 
notoriously unshaken in their king. 
A very great body of Tory clergy, 
nobility, and gentry, Avere public par- 
tisans "of the exiled Prince ; and the 
indifferents might be counted on to 
cry King George or King James, ac- 
cording as either should prevail. The 
Queen, especially in her latter days, 
inclined towards her own family. The 
Prince tvas lying actually in London, 
Avithin a stone’s-cast of his sister’s 

alace ; the first Minister toppling to 

is fall, and so tottering that the 
Aveakest push of a Avoman’s finger 
Avould send him doAvn ; and as for 
Bolingbroke, his successor, aa'C know 
on Avhose side his power and his 
splendid eloquence Avould be on the 
day Avhen the Queen should appear 
openly before her Council and say : — 
“ This, my Lords, is my brother ; 
here is my father’s heir, and mine 
after me.” 

During the whole of the previous year 


the Queen had had many and repeated 
fits of sickness, fever, and lethargy, 
and her death had been constantly 
looked for by all her attendants. Tlie 
Elector of Hanover had wished to 
send his son, the Duke of Cambridge, 
— to pay his court to liis cousin the 
Queen, the Elector said ; — in truth, 
to be on the spot Avhen death should 
close her career. Frightened perhaps 
to have such a viemento mori under her 
royal eyes, her Majesty had angrily 
forbidden the young Prince’s coming 
into England. Either she desired to 
keep the chances for her brother open 
yet ; or the people about her did not 
Avish to close Avith the Whig candidate 
till they could make terms Avith him. 
The quarrels of her Ministers before 
her fiice at the Council board, the 
pricks of conscience very likely, the 
importunities of her Ministers, and 
constant turmoil and agitation round 
about her, had Aveakened and irritated 
the Princess extremely ; her strength 
Avas giving Avay under these continual 
trials of her temper, and from day to 
day it Avas expected she must come to 
a speedy end of them. Just before Vis- 
count CastlcAvood and his companion 
came from France, her Majesty Avas 
taken ill. The St. Anthony’s fire 
broke out on the royal legs ; there Avas 
no hurry for the presentation of the 
young lord at Court, or that jierson 
Avho should appear under his name ; 
and my Lord Viscount’s Avound break- 
ing out opportunely, he was kept 
conveniently in his chamber until 
such time as his physician Avould allow 
him to bend his knee before the Queen. 
At the commencement of Jiily, that 
influential lady, Avdth Avhom it has 
been mentioned that our party had 
relations, came frequently to visit her 
young friend, the Maid of Honor, at 
Kensington, and my Lord Viscount 
(the real or supposititious), Avho Avas 
an invalid at Lady CastleAvood’s 
house. 

On the 27th day of July, the lady 
in question, Avho held the most inti- 
mate post about the Queen, ctimcdn 
her chair from the Palace hard by, 


264 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


bnn<>ing to the little party in Ken- 
sington Square intelligence of tlie 
very highest importance. The final 
blow had been struck, and my Lord 
of Oxford and Mortimer was no long- 
er Treasurer. The staff Avas as yet 
given to no successor, though my 
Lord Bolingbroke would undoubted- 
ly be the man. And now the time 
was come, the Queen’s Abigail said : 
and noAv my Lord Castlewood ought 
to be presented to the Sovereign. 

After that scene which Lord Cas- 
tlcAvood Avitnessed and described to 
his cousin, Avho passed such a miser- 
able night of mortification and jeal- 
ousy as he thought OA^er the transac- 
tion, no doubt the three persons Avho 
Avere set by nature as protectors over 
Beatrix came to the same conclusion, 
that she must be removed from the 
presence of a man Avhose desires to- 
Avards her Avere expressed only too 
clearly ; and Avho Avas no more scru- 
pulous in seeking to gratify them 
than his father had been before him. 
I suppose Esmond’s mistress, her son, 
and the Colonel himself, had been 
all secretly debating this matter in 
their minds, for Avhen Frank broke 
out, in his blunt Avay, with: — “I 
think Beatrix had best be anyAvhere 
but here,” — Lady CastlcAvood said : 
— “I thank you, Frank, I have 
thought so, too ” ; and Mr. Esmond, 
though he only remarked that it Avas 
not for him to speak, showed plainly, 
by the delight on his countenance, 
how A^ery agreeable that proposal was 
to him. 

“ One sees that you think with us, 
Henry,” -says the Viscountess, Avith 
ever so little of sarcasm in her tone : 
“Beatrix is best out of this house 
whilst Ave have our guest in it, and 
as soon as this morning’s business is 
done, she ought to quit London.” 

“ What morning’s business 1 ” asked 
Colonel Esmond, not knoAving Avhat 
had been arranged, though in fact the 
stroke next in importance to that of 
bringing the Prince and of having 
him acknoAvledged by the Queen, was 
noAv being performed at the very 


moment we three were conversing to- 
gether. 

The Court lady with Avhom our 
plan Avas concerted, and Avho Avas a 
chief agent in it, the Court physician, 
and the Bishop of llochester, Avho 
AA'ere the other tAvo most actiA^e par- 
ticipators in our plan, had held many 
councils in our house at Kensington 
and elsewhere, as to the means best 
to be adopted for presenting our 
young adA'enturcr to his sister the 
Queen. The simple and easy plan 
proposed by Colonel Esmond had 
been agreed to by all parties, Avhich 
Avas that on some rather private day, 
Avhen there Avere not many persons 
about tlie Court, the Prince should 
appear there as my Lord CastlcAvood, 
should be greeted by his sister-in-Avait- 
ing, and led by that other lady into 
the closet of the Queen. And accord- 
ing to her Majesty’s health or humor, 
and the circumstances that might 
arise during the inteiwiew, it Avas to 
be left to the discretion of those pres- 
ent at it, and to the Prince himself, 
whether he should declare that it Avas 
the Queen’s OAvn brothei’, or the broth- 
er of Beatrix Esmond, Avho kissed 
her Royal hand. And this plan be- 
ing determined on, Ave AAcre all wait- 
ing in very much anxiety for the day 
and signal of execution. 

Tavo mornings after that supper, it 
being the 27 th day of July, the Bish- 
op of Rochester breakfasting with 
Lady CastleAvood and her family, and 
the meal scarce over. Doctor A.’s 
coach drove up to our house at Ken- 
sington, and the Doctor appeared 
amongst the party there, enlivening 
a rather gloomy company ; for the 
mother and daughter had had Avords 
in the morning in respect to the trans- 
actions of that supper, and other ad- 
ventures perhaps, and on the day 
succeeding. Beatrix’s haughty spirit 
brooked remonstrances from no su- 
perior, much less from her mother, 
the gentlest of creatures, Avhom the 
girl commanded rather than obeyed. 
And feeling she Avas Avrong, and that 
by a thousand coquetries (Avhich sho 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


265 


could no more help exercising on 
every man that came near her, than 
the sun can help shining on great 
and small) she had provoked the 
Prince’s dangerous admiration, and 
allured him to the expression of it, 
she was only the more wilful and im- 
perious the more she felt her error. 

To this party, the Prince being 
served with chocolate in his bed- 
chamber, where he lay late sleeping 
away the fumes of his wine, the Doc- 
tor came, and by the urgent and 
startling nature of his news, dissi- 
pated instantly that private and minor 
unpleasantry under which the family 
of Castlewood was laboring. 

He asked for the guest ; the guest 
was above in his own apartment : he 
bade Monsieur Baptiste go up to 
his master instantly, and request 
that My Lord Viscount Castlewood 
would straightway put his uniform 
on, and come away in the Doctor’s 
coach now at the door. 

He then informed Madam Beatrix 
what her part of the comedy was to 
be: — “In half an hour,” says he, 
** her Majesty and her favorite lady 
will take the air in the Cedar-walk 
behind the new Banqueting-house. 
Her Majesty will be drawn in a 
garden-chair. Madam Beatrix Es- 
mond and her brother, my Lord Viscount 
Castlewood, will be walking in the 
private garden (here is Lady 
Masham’s key), and will come un- 
awares upon the Royal party. The 
man that draws the chair will retire, 
and leave the Queen, the favorite, 
and the maid of honor and her 
brother together; Mistress Beatrix 
will present her brother, and then ! — 
and then, my Lord Bishop will pray 
for the result of the interview, and 
his Scots clerk will say Amen ! 
Quick, put on your hood. Madam 
Beatrix; why doth not his Majesty 
com6 down ? Such another chance 
may not present itself for months 
again.” 

The Prince was late and lazy, and 
indeed had all but lost that chance 
through his indolence. The Queen 
12 


was actually about to leave the 
garden just when the party reached 
it ; the Doctor, the Bishop, the maid 
of honor, and her brother went off 
together in the physician’s coach, and 
had been gone half an hour when 
Colonel Esmond came to Kensington 
Square. 

The news of this errand, on which 
Beatrix was gone, of course for a 
moment put all thoughts of private 
jealousy out of Colonel Esmond’s 
head. In half an hour more the 
coach returned ; the Bishop descended 
from it first, and gave his arm to 
Beatrix, who now came out. His 
Lordship went back into the carriage 
again, and the maid of honor entered 
the house alone. We were all gazing 
at her from the upper window, trying 
to read from her countenance the 
result of the interview from which 
she had just come. 

She came into the drawing-room in 
a great tremor and very pale; she 
asked for a glass of water as her 
mother went to meet her, and after 
dnnking that and putting off her 
hood, she began to speak : — “ We 
may all hope for the best,” says she ; 
“ it has cost the Queen a fit. Her 
Majesty was in her chair in the 
Cedar-walk, accompanied only by 

Lady , when we entered by the 

private wicket from the west side of 
the garden, and turned towards her, 
the Doctor following us. They 
waited in a side walk hidden by the 
shrubs, as we advanced towards the 
chair. My heart throbbed so I scarce 
could speak ; but my Prince w'hispcr- 
ed, ‘ Courage, Beatrix,’ and marched 
on with a steady step. His face was 
a little flushed, but he was not afraid 
of the danger. He who fought so 
bravely at Malplaquet fears nothing.” 
Esmond and Castlewood looked at 
each other at this compliment, neither 
liking the sound of it. 

“ The Prince uncovered,” Beatrix 
continued, “ and I saw the Queen 
turning round to Lady Masham, as 
if asking who these two were. Her 
Majesty looked very pale and ill, and 


266 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


then flushed up; the favorite made 
us a signal to advance, and I went 
up, leadin" my Prince by the hand, 
quite close to the chair : ‘ Your 

Majesty will give my Lord Viscount 
your hand to kiss,^ says her Lady, 
and the Queen put out her hand, 
which the Prince kissed, kneeling on 
his knee, he who should kneel to no 
mortal man or woman. 

“ ‘ You have been long from Eng- 
land, my Lord,’ says the Queen : 
‘ why were you not here to give a 
home to your mother and sister 1 ’ 

“ ‘ I am come. Madam, to stay now, 
if the Queen desires me,’ says the 
Prince, with another low bow. 

“ ‘ You have taken a foreign wife, 
my Lord, and a foreign religion ; 
was not that of England good enough 
for you 1 ’ 

“ ‘ In returning to my father’s 
church,’ says the Prince, ‘ I do not 
love my mother the less, nor am I 
the less faithful servant of , your 
Majesty.’ 

“ Here,” says Beatrix, “ the favor- 
ite gave me a little signal with her 
hand to fall back, Avhich I did, though 
I died to hear what should pass ; and 
whispered something to the Queen, 
which made her Majesty start and 
utter one or two words in a hurried 
manner, looking towards the Prince, 
and catching hold with her hand of 
the arm of her chair. He advanced 
still nearer towards it ; he began to 
speak very rapidly ; I caught the 
words, ‘ Father, blessing, forgiveness,’ 
— and then presently the Prince fell 
on his knees ; took from his breast a 
paper he had there, handed it to the 
Queen, who, as soon as she saAv it, 
flung up both her arms Avith a scream, 
and took away that hand nearest the 
Prince, and which he endeavored to 
kiss. He went on speaking with 
great animation of gesture, now 
clasping his hands together on his 
heart, now opening them as though 
to say : ‘ I am here, your brother, in 
your power.’ Lady Masham ran 
round on the other side of the chair, 
kneeling too, and speaking Avith 


great energy. She clasped the 
Queen’s hand on lier side, and picked 
up the paper her Majesty had let 
fall. The I’rince rose and made a 
further speech as though he Avould go ; 
the favorite on the other hand urging 
her mistress, and then, running back 
to the Prince, brought him back once 
more close to the chair. Again he 
knelt doAvn and took the Queen’s 
hand, which she did not AvithdraAV, 
kissing it a hundred times ; my Lady 
all the time, Avith sobs and sup])lira- 
tions, speaking OA^er the chair. This 
Avhile the Queen sat Avith a stupefied 
look, crumpling the paper AA'ith one 
hand, as my Prince embraced the 
other ; then of a sudden she uttered 
several piercing shrieks, and burst 
into a great fit of hysteric tears and 
laughter. ‘ Enough, enough, sir, for 
this time,’ I heard Lady Masham 
say : and the chairman, Avho had 
withdraAvn round the Banqueting- 
room, came back, alarmed by the 
cries. ‘ Quick,’ says Lady Masham, 
‘ get some help,’ and I ran toAvards 
the Doctor, Avho, Avith the Bishop of 
Rochester, came up instantly. ^ Lady 
Masham Avhispcred the Prince he 
might hope for the very best ; and to 
be ready to-morroAv ; and he hath 
gone aAvay to the Bishop of Roches- 
ter’s house, to meet several of his 
friends there. And so the great 
stroke is struck,” says Beatrix, going 
doAvn on her knees, and clasping her 
hands. “ God save the King : God 
save the King ! ” 

Beatrix’s tale told, and the young 
lady herself calmed somcAvhat of her 
agitation, avc asked with regard to the 
Prince, Avho Avas absent Avith Bishop 
Atterbury, and Avere informed that ’t 
Avas likely he might remain abroad the 
Avhole day. Beatrix’s three kinsfolk 
looked at one another at this intelli- 
gence ; ’t Avas clear the same thought 
Avas passing through the minds o^all. 

But Avho should begin to break the 
ncAvs ? Monsieur Baptiste, that is 
Frank CastlcAvood, turned very red, 
and looked tOAvards Esmond ; the 
Colonel bit his lips, and fajrly beat a 


THE HISTORY OP HENRY ESMOND. 


2G7 


retreat into the window ; it was Lady 
Castlcwood that opened upon Bea- 
trix with the news which we knew 
would do anything but please her. 

“ We are glad,'’ says she, taking 
her diuighter’s hand, and speaking in 
a gentle voice, “ that the guest is 
away.” 

Beatrix drew back in an instant, 
looking round her at us three, and as 
if divining a danger. “ Why glad 1 ” 
says she, her b^reast beginning to 
heave ; “ are you so soon tired of 
him 1 ” 

“ We think one of us is devilishly 
too fond of him,” cries out Frank 
Castlewood. 

“ And which is it, — you my Lord, 
or is it mamma, who is jealous be- 
cause he drinks my health ? or is it 
the bead of the family ” (here she 
turned with an imperious look towards 
Colonel Esmond), “who has taken of 
late to preach the King sermons 1 ” 

“ We do not say you are too free 
with his Majesty.” 

“ I thank you, madam,” says Bea- 
trix, with a toss of the head and a 
courtesy. 

But her mother continued, with 
very great calmness and dignity, — 
“ At least we have not said so, though 
we might, were it possible for a moth- 
er to say such words to her own 
daughter, your father’s daughter.” 

‘‘Eh? mon pere,” breaks out Bea- 
trix, “ was no better than other per- 
sons’ fathers.” And again she looked 
towards the Colonel. 

We all felt a shock as she uttered 
those two or three French words ; her 
manner was exactly imitated from 
that of our foreign guest. 

You had not learned to speak 
French a month ago, Beatrix,” says 
her mother, sadly, “ nor to speak ill 
of your father.” 

Beatrix, no doubt, saw that slip she 
had made in her flurry, for she 
blushed crimson : “I have learnt to 
honor the King,” says she, drawing 
up, “ and ’t were as well that others 
suspected neither his Majesty nor 
me.” 


“If you respected your mother a 
little more,” P'rank said, “ ’Trix, you 
would do yourself no hurt.” 

“ I am no child,” says she, turning 
round on him ; “ we have lived very 
well these five years without the bene- 
fit of your advice or example, and I 
intend to take neither now. Why 
does not the head of the house speak ? ” 
she went on ; “ he rules everything 
here. When his chaplain has done 
singing the psalms, will his Lordship 
deliver the sermon ? I am tired of 
the psalms.” The Prince had used 
almost the very same words in regard 
to Colonel Esmond that the impru- 
dent girl repeated in her wrath. 

“ You show yourself a very apt 
scholar, madam,” says the Colonel : 
and, turning to his mistress, “Did 
your guest use these words in your 
Ladyship’s hearing, or was it to Bea- 
trix in private that he was pleased to 
impart his opinion regarding my tire- 
some sermon ? ” 

“ Have you seen him alone 1 ” cries 
my Lord, starting up with an oath ; 
“ by God, have you seen him alone ? ” 

“ Were he here, you would n’t dare 
so to insult me ; no, you would not 
dare ! ” cries Frank’s sister. “ Keep 
your oaths, my Lord, for your wife ; 
we are not used here to such language. 
Till you came, there used to be kind- 
ness between me and mamma, and I 
cared for her when you never did, 
when you were away for years with 
your horses and your mistress, and 
your Popish wife.” 

“ By ,” says my Lord, rapping 

out another oath, “ Clotilda is an 
angel ; how dare you say a word 
against Clotilda ? ” 

Colonel Esmond could not refrain 
from a smile to see how easy Frank’s 
attack was drawn off by that feint : — 
“ I fancy Clotilda is not the subject 
in hand,” says Mr. Esmond, rather 
scornfully; “her Ladyship is at Paris, 
a hundred leagues off, preparing 
baby -linen. It is about my Lord 
Castlewood’s sister, and not his wife, 
the question is.” 

“ He is not my Lord Castlew'ood,” 


2G8 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


says Beatrix, ‘^and he knows he is 
not ; he is Colonel Francis Esmond’s 
son, and no more, and he wears a 
false title ; and he lives on another 
man’s land, and he knows it.” Here 
was another desperate sally of the 
poor beleaguered garrison, and an 
altrte in another quarter. “ Again I 
beg your pardon,” says Esmond. 
“ If there are no proofs of my claim, 
I have no claim. If my. father ac- 
knowledged no heir, yours was his 
lawful successor, and my Lord Castle- 
wood hath as good a right to his 
rank and small estate as any man in 
England. But that again is not the 
question, as you know very well ; let 
us bring our talk back to it, as you 
will have me meddle in it. And I 
will give you frankly my opinion, 
that a house where a Prince lies all 
day, who respects no woman, is no 
house for a young unmarried lady ; 
that you were better in the country 
than here ; that he is here on a great 
end, from which no folly should di- 
vert him; and that having nobly 
done your part of this morning, 
Beatrix, you should retire off the 
scene awhile, and leave it to the other 
actors of the play.” 

As the Colonel spoke with a perfect 
calmness and politeness, such as ’t is 
to be hoped he hath always shown to 
W'omcn,* his mistress stood by him 

* My dear father saith quite truly, that his 
manner towards our sex was uniformly 
courteous. From my infancy upwards, he 
treated me with an extreme gentleness, as 
though I was a little lady. I can scarce re- 
member (though I tried him often) ever 
hearing a rough word from him nor was he 
less grave and kind in his manner to the hum- 
blest negresses on his estate. He was familiar 
tvith no one except my mother, and it was 
delightful to witness up to the very last days 
the confidence between them. He was obeyed 
eagerly by all under him ; and my mother 
and all her household lived in a constant emu- 
lation to please him, and quite a terror lest in 
any way they should offend him. He was the 
humblest man, with all this ; the least exact- 
ing, the most easily contented ; and Mr. Ben- 
son, our minister at Castlewood, who attend- 
ed him at the last, ever said, — “I know not 
what Colonel Esmond’s doctrine was, but his 
life and death were those of a devout Chris- 
tiau,” — R. E. W. 


on one side of tlie fable, and Frank 
Castlew'ood on the other, hemming in 
poor Beatrix, thatw^as behind it, and, 
as it were, surrounding her wdth her 
approaches. 

Having twdee sallied out and been 
beaten back, she new, as I expected, 
tried the ultima ratio of women, and 
had recourse to tears. Her beautiful 
eyes filled with them ; I never could 
bear in her, nor in any woman, that 
expression of pain : — “I am alone,” 
sobbed she; “jou are three against 
me, — my brother, my mother, and 
you. "What have I done, that you 
should speak and look so unkindly at 
me 1 Is it my fault that the Prince 
should, as you say, admire me ? Did 
I bring him here 1 Did I do aught 
but what you bade me, in making 
liim welcome 1 Did you not tell me 
that our duty was to die for him ? 
Did you not teach me, mother, night 
and morning to pray for the King, 
before even ourselves t What would 
you have of me, cousin, for you are 
the chief of the conspiracy against 
me ; I know you are, sir, and that my 
mother and brother are acting but as 
you bid them ; whither would you 
have me go 1 ” 

“I would but remove from the 
Prince,” says Esmond, gravely, “a 
dangerous temptation ; Heaven forbid 
I should say you would yield ; I 
would only have him free of il. Your 
honor needs no guardian, please God, 
but his imprudence doth. He is so 
far removed from all women by his 
rank, that his pursuit of them cannot 
but be unlawful. We would remove 
the dearest and fairest of our family 
from the chance of that insult, and 
that is why we would have you go, 
dear Beatrix.” 

“ Harry speaks like a book,” says 
Frank, with one of his oaths, “ and 

by , every word he saith is true. 

You can’t help being handsome, 
’Trix ; no more can the Prince help 
following you. My counsel is that 
you go out of harm’s way ; for, by the 
Lord, were the Prince to play any 
tricks with you, King as he is, or is to 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


269 


r bc, Harry Esmond and I would have 
justice of him.” 

“Are not two such champions 
cnougli to guard me ” says Beatrix, 
something sorrowfully ; “ sure, with 
you two watching, no evil could hap- 
pen to me.” 

“ In faith, I think not, Beatrix,” 
says Colonel Esmond ; “ nor if the 
Prince knew us would he try.” 

“But does he know youl” inter- 
posed Lady Esmond, very quiet : “ he 
comes of a country where tlie pursuit 
of kings is thought no dishonor to a 
woman. Let us go, dearest Beatrix^ 
Shall we go to Walcote or to Castle- 
wood 1 We are best away from the 
city ; and when the Prince is acknowl- 
edged, and our champions have re- 
stored him, and he hath his OAvn house 
at St. James’s or Windsor, we can 
come back to ours here. Do you not 
think so, Harry and Frank ? ” 

Frank and Harry thought with 
her, you may be sure. 

“ We will go, then,” says Beatrix, 
turning a little pale ; “ Lady Masham 
is to give me warning to-night how 
her Majesty is, and to-morrow — ” 

“ I think we had best go to-day, 
my dear,” says my Lady Castle^yood ; 
“ we might have the coach and sleep 
at Hounslow, and reach home to- 
morrow. ’T is twelve o’clock ; bid 
the coach, cousin, be ready at one.” 

“ For shame ! ” burst out Beatrix, 
in a passion of tears and mortifica- 
tion. “ You disgrace me by your 
cruel precautions ; my own mother is 
the first to suspect me, and would 
take me away as my jailer. I will 
not go with you, mother ; I will go 
as no one’s prisoner. If I wanted to 
deceive, do you think I could hnd no 
means of evading you ? My family 
suspects me. As those mistrust me 
that ought to love me most, let me 
leave them ; I will go, but I will go 
alone : to Castlewood, be it. I have 
been unhappy there and lonely 
enough ; let me go back, but spare 
me at least the humiliation of setting 
a watch over my misery, which is a 
trial I can’t bear. Let me go when 


you will, but alone, or not at all. 
You three can stay and triumph over 
my unhappiness, and I will bear it as 
I have borne it before. Let my 
jailer-in-chief go order the coach that 
is to take me away. I thank you, 
Henry Esmond, for your share in the 
conspiracy. All my life long 1 ’ll 
thank you, and remember you, and 
you, brother, and you, mother, how 
shall I show my gratitude to you for 
your careful defence of my honor 1 ” 

She swept out of the room with the 
air of an empress, flinging glances of 
defiance at us all, and leaving us 
conquerors of the field, but scared, 
and almost ashamed of our victory. 
It did indeed seem hard aud cruel 
that we three should have conspired 
the banishment and humiliation of 
that fair creature. We looked at 
each other in silence ; ’t was not the 
first stroke by many of our actions in 
that unlucky time, which, being done, 
we wished undone. We agreed it 
was best she should go alone, speaking 
stealthily to one another, and under 
our breaths, like persons engaged in 
an act they felt ashamed in doing. 

In a half-hour, it might be, after 
our talk she came back, her counte- 
nance wearing the same defiant air 
which it had borne Avhen she 
left us. She held a shagreen-case in 
her hand ; Esmond knew it as con- 
taining his diamonds Avhich he had 
given to her for her marriage Avith 
Duke Hamilton, and Avhieh she had 
worn so splendidly on the inauspi- 
cious night of the Prince’s arrival. “ I 
have brought back,” says she, “ to 
the Marquis of Esmond the present 
he deigned to make me in days Avhen 
he trusted me better than now. I 
Avill ncA’er accept a benefit or a kind- 
ness from Henry Esmond more, and 
I give back these fiimily diamonds, 
Avhich belonged to one king’s mistress, 
to the gentleman that suspected I 
Avould be another. Have you been 
upon your message of coach-caller, 
my Lord Marquis ? Will you send 
your valet to see that I do not run 
aAvay 7 ” We were right, yet, by her 


270 


THE mSTOHY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


manner, she had put us all in the 
wrong ; we were conquerors, yet the 
honors of the day seemed to be with 
the ])Oor oppressed girl. 

That luckless box containing the 
stones had first been ornamented with 
a baron’s coronet, when Beatrix Avas 
engaged to the young gentleman 
from whom she parted, and after- 
wards the gilt crown of a duchess 
figured on the cover, which also poor 
Beatrix was destined never to wear. 
Lady Castlewood opened the case 
mechanically and scarce thinking 
what she did ; and beliold, besides 
the diamonds, Esmond’s present, 
there lay in the lx)x the enamelled 
miniature of the late Duke, Avhich 
Beatrix had laid aside with her 
mourning when the King came into 
the house; and which the poor heed- 
less thing very likely had forgotten. 

“ Do you leave this, too, Beatrix ” 
says her mother, taking the minia- 
ture out, and with a cruelty she did 
not very often show; but there are 
some moments when the tenderest 
women are cruel, and some triumphs 
which angels can’t forego.* 

Having delivered this stab. Lady 
Esmond was frightened at the effect 
of her blow. It went to pour Bea- 
trix’s heart : she flushed up and 
passed a handkerchief across her 
eyes, and kissed the miniature, and 
put it into her bosom : — “I had for- 
got it,” says she; “ my injury made 
me forget my grief : my mother has 
recalled both to me. E arewell, moth- 
er ; I think I never can forgive you ; 
something hath broke between us 
that no tears nor years can repair. 
I always said I was alone ; you never 
loved me, never, — and were jealous 
of me from the time I sat on my 
father’s knee. Let me go away, the 
sooner the better : I can bear to be 
with you no more.” 

* This remark shows how unjustly and 
contemptuously even the best of men will 
sometimes judge of our sex. Lady Esmond 
had no intention of triumphing over her 
daughter ; but from a sense of duty alone 
pointed out her deplorable wrong R. E. 


“ Go, child,” says her mother, still 
very stern ; “ go and bend your 

proud knees and ask forgiveness ; go, 
pray in solitude for humility and 
repentance. ’T is not your reproaches 
that make me unhappy, ’t is your 
hard heart, my poor Beatrix ; may 
God soften it, and teach you one day 
to feel for your mother.” 

If my mistress was cntel, at least 
she never could be got to own as 
much. Her haughtiness quite over- 
topped Beatrix’s ; and, if the girl had 
a proud spirit, I very much fear it 
came to her by inheritance. 


CHAPTER XL 

OUR GUEST QUITS US AS NOT BEING 
HOSPITABLE ENOUGH. 

Beatrix’s departure took place 
within an hour, her maid going with 
her in the post-chaise, and a man 
armed on tlie coach-box to prevent 
any danger of the road. Esmond 
and Frank thought of escorting the 
carriage, but she indignantly refused 
their compan}^ and another man was 
sent to follow the coach, and not to 
leave it till it had passed over Houns- 
low Heath on the next day. And 
these two forming the whole of Lady 
Castlevvood’s male domestics, Mr. 
Esmond’s faithful John Lockwood 
came to wait on his mistress during 
their absence, though he Avould have 
preferred to escort Mrs. Lucy, his 
sweetheart, on her journey into the 
country. 

We had a gloomy and silent meal ; 
it seempd as if a darkness was over 
the house, since the bright face of 
Beatrix had been withdrawn from it. 
In the afternoon came a message 
from the favorite to relicfe us some- 
what from this despondency. “The 
Queen hath been much shaken,” the 
note said ; “ she is better now, and 
all things will go Avell. Let my Lord 
Castlewood be ready against Ave send 
for him.” 

At night there came a second bil- 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


271 


let : “ There hath been a great battle 
in Council ; Lord Treasurer hath 
broke his staff, and hath fallen never 
to rise again ; no successor is ap- 
pointed. Lord B receives a great 

Whig company to-night at Golden 
Square. If he is trimming, others 
are true ; the Queen hath no more 
fits, hut is abed now, and more quiet. 
Be ready against morning, when I 
still hope all Avill be well.” 

The Prince came home shortly 
after the messenger Avho bore this 
billet had left the house. His Royal 
Highness was so much the better for 
the Bishop’s liquor, that to talk af- 
fjiirs to him now was of little service. 
He was helped to the Royal bed ; 
he called Castlewood familiarly by 
his own name ; he quite forgot the 
part upon the acting of which his 
crown, his safety, depended. ’T was 
lucky that my Lady Castlewood’s 
servants were out of the way, and 
only those heard him who would not 
betray him. He inquired after the 
adorable Beatrix, Avith a royal hiccup 
in his voice ; he Avas easily got to bed, 
and in a minute or tAvo plunged in 
that deep slumber and forgetfulness 
Avith Avhich Bacchus rcAvards the vo- 
taries of that god. We wished Bea- 
trix had been there to see him in his 
cups. We regretted, perhaps, that 
she was gone. 

One of the party at Kensington 
Square Avas fool enough to ride to 
Hounslow that niglit, comm latroni- 
bus, and to the inn Avhich the family 
used ordinarily in their journeys out 
of London. Esmond desired my land- 
lord not to acquaint Madam Beatrix 
Avith his coming, and had the grim 
satisfaction of passing by the door of 
the chamber Avhere she lay AAUth her 
maid, and of watching her chariot set 
forth in the early morning. He saw 
her smile and slip money into the 
man’s hand Avho Avas ordered to ride 
behind the coach as far as Bagshot. 
The road being open, and the other 
servant armed, it appeared she dis- 
j)enscd Avith the escort of a second do- 
mestic; and this fellow, bidding his 


young mistress adieu with many 
bows, AA^nt and took a pot of ale in 
the kitchen, and returned in company 
Avith his brother servant, John Coach- 
man, and his horses, back to London. 

They Avere not a mile out of Houns- 
loAv, Avhen the tAvo Avorthies stopped 
for more drink, and here they Avere 
scared by seeing Colonel Esmond 
gallop by them. The man said in 
reply to Colonel Esmond’s stern ques- 
tion that his young mistress had sent 
her duty ; only that, no other mes- 
sage : she had had a A-ery good night, 
and Avould reach CastlcAvood by 
nightfall. The Colonel luid no time 
for further colloquy, and galloped on 
SAviftly to London, having business 
of great importance there, as my 
reader very Avell knoAveth. The 
thought of Beatrix riding aAvay from 
the danger soothed his mind not a 
little. His horse Avas at Kensington 
Square (honest Dapple kncAV the Avay 
thither Avell enough) before the tipsy 
guest of last night Avas awake and so- 
ber. 

The account of the preAuous even- 
ing Avas ktioAvn all over the tOAvn 
early next day. A violent alterca- 
tion had taken place before the Queen 
in the Council Chamber ; and all the 
coffee-houses had their version of the 
quarrel. The neAvs brought my Lord 
Bishop early to Kensington Square, 
Avhere he aAvaited the Avaking of his 
Royal master above stairs, and spoke 
confidently of having him proclaimed 
as Prince of Wales and heir to the 
throne before that day was OA'cr. 
The Bishop had entertained on the 
previous afternoon certain of the most 
influential gentlemen of the true Brit- 
ish party. His Royal Highness had 
charmed all, both Scots and English, 
Papists and Churchmen : “ Even 
Quakers,” says he, “ Averc at our 
meeting : and, if the stranger took a 
little too much British punch and 
ale, he Avill soon grow more accus- 
tomed to those liquors : and my Lord 
CastlcAvood,” says the Bishop, Avith a 
laugh, “ must bear the cruel charge 
of having been for once in his life a 


272 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


little tipsy. He toasted your lovely 
sister a dozen times, at which we all 
laughed,” says the Bishop, “ admir- 
ing so much fraternal affection, — 
Where is that charming nymph, and 
why doth she not adorn your Lady- 
ship’s tea-table with her bright eyes ? ” 

Her Ladyship said, dryly, that Bea- 
trix was not at home that morning ; 
my Lord Bishop was too busy with 
great affairs to trouble himself much 
about the presence or absence of any 
lady, however beautiful. 

We were yet at table when Dr. 

A came from the Palace with a 

look of great alarm ; the shocks the 
Queen had had the day before had 
acted on her severely ; he had been 
sent for, and had ordered her to be 
blooded. The surgeon of Long Acre 
had come to cup the Queen, and her 
Majesty was now more easy, and 
breathed more freely. What made 
us start at the name of Mr. Ayme ? 
“ II faut etre aimable pour etre aime,” 
says the merry Doctor ; Esmond 
pulled his sleeve, and bade him hush. 
It was to Ayme’s house, after his fa- 
tal duel, that my dear Lord Castle- 
wood, Frank’s father, had been car- 
ried to die. 

No second visit could be paid to the 
Queen on that day at any rate ; and 
when our guest above gave his signal 
that he was awake, the Doctor, the 
Bishop, and Colonel Esmond waited 
upon the Prince’s levee, and brought 
him their news, cheerful or dubious. 
The Doctor had to go away presently, 
but promised to keep the Prince con- 
stantly acquainted with what was 
taking place at the Palace hard by. 
His counsel was, and the Bishop’s, 
that as soon as ever the Queen’s mal- 
ady took a favorable turn, the Prince 
should be introduced to her bedside ; 
the Council summoned ; the guard at 
Kensington and St. James’s, of which 
two regiments were to be entirely re- 
lied on, and one known not to be hos- 
tile, would declare for the Prince, as 
the Queen would before the Lords of 
her Council, designating him as the 
heir to her throne. 


With locked doors, and Colonel 
Esmond acting as secretary, the 
Prince and his Lordship of Eochcster 
passed many hours of this day com- 
posing Proclamations and Addresses 
to the Country, to the Scots, to the 
Clergy, to the People of London and 
England ; announcing the arrival of 
the exile descendant of three sover- 
eigns, and his acknowledgment by his 
sister as heir to the throne. Every 
safeguard for their liberties the 
Church and People could ask was 
promised to them. The Bishop could 
answer for the adhesion of very many 
prelates, who besought of their flocl« 
and brother ecclesiastics to recognize 
the sacred right of the future sover- 
eign, and to purge the country of the 
sin of rebellion. 

During the composition of these 
papers, more messengers than one 
came from the Palace regarding the 
state of the august patient there 
lying. At midday she was somewhat 
better; at evening the torpor again 
seized her, and she wandered in her 

mind. At night Dr. A was with 

us again, with a report rather more 
favorable : no instant danger at any 
rate was apprehended. In the course 
of the last two years her Majesty had 
had many attacks similar, but more 
severe. 

By this time w e had finished a half- 
dozen of Proclamations (the word- 
ing of them so as to offend no parties, 
and not to give umbrage to Whigs or 
Dissenters, required very great cau- 
tion), and the young Prince, who had 
indeed shown, during a long day’s 
labor, both alacrity at seizing the in- 
formation given him, and ingenuity 
and skill in turning the phrases w'hich 
were to go out signed by his name, 
here exhibited a good-humor and 
thoughtfulness that ought to be set 
down to his credit. 

“ Were these papers to be mislaid,” 
says he, “ or our scheme to come to 
mishap, my Lord Esmond’s wanting 
would bring him to a place where I 
heartily hope never to see him ; and 
so, by your leave, I will copy the 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


\io 


papers myself, though I am not very 
strong in spelling; and if they are 
found they will implicate none but the 
person they most concern ” ; and so, 
having carefully copied the Proclama- 
tions out, the Prince burned those 
in Colonel Esmond’s handwriting : 
“ And now, and now, gentlemen,” 
says he, “ let us go to supper, and 
drink a glass with the ladies. My 
Lord Esmond, you will sup with us 
to-night ; you have given us of late 
too little of your company.” 

The Prince’s meals were commonly 
served in the chamber which had been 
Beatrix’s bedroom, adjoining that in 
which he slept. And the dutiful 
practice of his entertainers was to 
wait until their Royal guest bade 
them take their places at table before 
they sat down to partake of the meal. 
On this night, as you may suppose, 
oulyFrank Castlewood and his mother 
were in waiting when the supper was 
announced to receive the Prince ; wlio 
had passed the whole of the day in 
his own apartment, with the Bishop 
as his Minister of State, and Colonel 
Esmond officiating as Secretary of 
his Council. 

The Prince’s countenance wore an 
expression by no means pleasant; 
when looking towards the little com- 
any assembled, and waiting for him, 
e did not see Beatrix’s bright face 
there as usual to greet him. He ask- 
ed Lady Esmond for his fair intro- 
ducer of yesterday : her Ladyship only 
cast her eyes down, and said quietly, 
Beatrix could not be of the supper 
that night ; nor did she show the least 
sign of confusion, whereas Castlewood 
turned red, and Esmond was no less 
embarrassed. I think women have 
an instinct of dissimulation ; they 
know by nature how to disguise their 
emotions far better than the most 
consummate male courtiers can do. 
Is not the better part of the life of 
many of them spent in hiding their 
feelings, in cajoling their tyrants, in 
maskin'^ over with fond smiles and 
artful gayety their doubt, or their 
grief, or their terror ? 

12 * 


Our guest swallowed his supper 
very sulkily : it was not till the second 
bottle his Highness began to rally. 
When Lady Castlewood asked leave 
to depart, he sent a message to Bea- 
trix, hoping she would be present at 
the next day’s dinner, and applied 
himself to drink, and to talk after- 
wards, for which there was subject in 
plenty. 

The next day, we heard from our 
informer at Kensington that the Queen 
was somewhat better, and had been 
up for an hour, though she was not 
well enough yet to receive any visitor. 

At dinner a single cover was laid 
for his Royal Highness ; and the two 
gentlemen alone waited on him. We 
had had a consultation in the morn- 
ing with Lady Castlewood, in which 
it had been determined that, should 
his Highness ask further questions 
about Beatrix, he should be answered 
by the gentlemen of the house. 

He was evidently disturbed and 
uneasy, looking towards the door 
constantly, as if expecting some one. 
There came, however, nobody, except 
honest John Lockwood, when he 
knocked with a dish, whicli those 
within took from him ; so the meals 
were always arranged, and 1 believe 
the council in the kitchen were of 
opinion that my young lord had 
brought over a priest, Avho had con- 
verted us all into Papists, and that 
Papists were like Jews, eating together, 
and not choosing to take their meals 
in the sight of Christians. 

The Prince tried to cover his dis- 
pleasure ; he was but a clumsy dis- 
sembler at that time, and when out 
of humor could with difficulty keep a 
serene countenance ; and having made 
some foolish attempts at trivial talk, 
he came to his point presently, and in 
as easy a manner as he could, saying 
to Lord Castlewood, he hoped, he re- 
quested, his Lordship’s mother and 
sister would be of the supper that 
night. As the time hung heavy on 
him, and he must not go abroad, 
would not Miss Beatrix hold him 
company at a game of cards 1 
B 


274 


THE HISTORY OF 

At this, looking up at Esmond, and 
taking the signal from him. Lord 
Castlevvood informed his Koyal High- 
ness * that his sister Beatrix was not 
at Kensington ; and that her family- 
had thought it best she should quit 
the town. 

“ Not at Kensington ! ” says he ; 

is she ill ? she was well yesterday ; 
wherefore should she quit the town 1 
Is it at your orders, my Lord, or 
Colonel Esmond’s, who seems the 
master of this house ? ” 

“ Not of this, sir,” says Frank very 
nobly, “ only of our house in the 
country, which he hath given to us. 
This is my mother’s house, and 
Walcote is my father’s, and the Mar- 
quis of Esmond knows he hath but to 
give his word, and I return his to 
him.” 

“ The Marquis of Esmond ! — the 
Marquis of Esmond,” says the Prince, 
tossing off a glass, “ meddles too much 
with my affairs, and presumes on the 
service lie hath done me. If you want 
to carry your suit with Beatrix, my 
Lord, by blocking her up in jail, let 
me tell you that is not the way to win 
a woman.” 

“ I was not aware, sir, that I had 
spoken of my suit to Madam Beatrix 
to your Koyal Highness.” 

“ Bah, bah. Monsieur ! we need not 
be a conjurer to see that. It makes 
itself seen at all moments. Y"ou are 
jealous, my Lord, and the maid of 
honor cannot look at another face 
without yours beginning to scowl. 
That which you do is unworthy. Mon- 
sieur; is inhospitable — is, is lache, 
yes, lache ” : (he spoke rapidly in 
French, his r.age carrying him away 
with each phrase) ; “1 come to your 
house ; I risk my life ; I pass it in 
ennui ; I repose myself on your 
fidelity ; I have no company but your 
Lordship’s sermons or the conversa- 
tions of that adorable young lady, and 
you take her from me, and you, you 

* In London we addressed the Prince as 
Royal Highness invariably ; though the 
women persisted in giving him the title of 
King. 


HENRY ESMOND. 

rest ! Merci, ^Monsieur ! I shall 
thank you when I Jiavc the means ; I 
shall know to recompense a devotion 
a littleimportunate, my Lord — a little 
importunate. For a month past your 
airs of protector have annoyed me 
beyond measure. You deign to offer 
me the crown, and bid me take it on 
my knees like King John — eh! I 
know my history, Monsieur, and mock 
myself of frowning barons. I admire 
your mistress, and you send her to a 
Bastile of the Province ; I enter your 
house, and yoit mistrust me. I will 
leave it. Monsieur ; from to-night I 
will leave it. I have other friends 
whose loyalty will not be so ready to 
question mine. If I have garters to 
give away, ’t is to noblemen who are 
not so ready to think evil. Bring me 
a coach and let me quit this place, or 
let the fair Bea trix return to it. I will 
not have your hospitality at the ex- 
pense of the freedom of that fair crea- 
ture.” 

This harangue was uttered with 
rapid gesticulation such as the French 
use, and in the language of .that 
nation. The Prince striding up and 
down the room ; his face flushed, and 
his hands trembling with anger. He 
was very thin and frail from repeated 
illness and a life of pleasure. Either 
Castlewood or Esmond could have 
broke him across their knee, and in 
half a minute’s struggle put an end to 
him ; and here he was insulting us 
both, and scaree deigning to hide from 
the two, whose honor it most con- 
cerned, the passion he felt for the young 
lady of our family. My Lord Castle- 
wood replied to the Prince’s tirade 
very nobly and simply. 

“ Sir,” says he, “your Koyal High- 
ness is pleased to forget that otliers 
risk their lives, and for your cause. 
Very few Englishmen, please God, 
would dare to lay hands on your 
sacred person, though none would 
ever think of respecting ours. Our 
family’s lives are at your service, 
and everything we have except our 
honor.” 

“ Honor ! bah, sir, tvho ever thought 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


275 


of hurtin" your honor ? ” says the 
Prince, with a peevish air. 

“ \Ye implore your Royal Highness 
never to think of hurting it,” says 
Lord Castlewood, with a low bow. 
The night being warm, the windows 
were open both towards the Gardens 
and the Square. Colonel Esmond 
heard through the closed door the 
voice of the watchman calling the 
hour, in the Square on the other side. 
He opened the door communicating 
with the Prince’s room ; Martin, the 
serv'ant that' had rode with Beatrix to 
Hounslow, was just going out of the 
chamber as Esmond entered it, and 
when the fellow was gone, and the 
watchman again sang his cry of “ Bast 
ten o’clock, and a starlight night,” 
Esmond spoke to the Prince in a low 
voice, and said, — “ Your Royal High- 
ness hears that man.” 

“ Apres, Monsieur ? ” says the 
Prince. 

“ I have but to beckon him from 
the window, and send him fifty yards, 
and he returns with a guard of men, 
and I deliver up to him the body of 
the person calling himself James the 
Third, for whose capture Parliament 
hath offered a reward of j£ 500, as 
your Royal Highness saw on our ride 
from Rochester. I have but to say 
the word, and, by the Heaven that 
made me, I would say it if I thought 
the Prince, for his honor’s sake, would 
not desist from insulting ours. But 
the first gentleman of England knows 
his duty too Avell to forget himself 
with the humblest, or peril his crown 
for a deed that were shameful if it 
were done.” 

“ Has your Lordship anything to 
say,” says the Prince, turning to 
Frank Castlewood, and quite pale 
with anger ; “ any threat or any in- 
sult, with Avhich you would like to 
end this agreeable night’s entertain- 
ment ? ” 

“ I follow the head of our house,” 
says Castlewood, bowing gravel 3 ^ 
“At what time shall it please the 
Prince that Ave should wait upon him 
in the morning 1 ” 


“ You Avill AA'ait on the Bishop of 
Rochester early, you Avill bid him 
bring his coach hither ; and prepare 
an apartment for me in his oavii 
house, or in a place of safety. The 
King Avill rcAvard you handsomely, 
never fear, for all you haA^e done in 
his behalf. I Avish you a good-night, 
and shall go to bed, unless it pleases 
the Marquis of Esmond to call his 
colleague, the Avatchman, and that I 
should pass the night Avith the Ken- 
sington guard. Fare you Avell, be 
sure 1 Avill remember you. My Lord 
Castlewood, I can go to bed to-night 
Avithout need of a chamberlain.” 
And the Prince dismissed us AAdth a 
grim boAV, locking one door as he 
spoke, tliat into the supping-room, 
and the other through Avhich Ave 
passed, after us. It led into the small 
chamber Avhich Frank CastlcAVOod or 
Monsieur Baptiste occupied, and by 
Avhich Martin entered Avhen Colonel 
Esmond but noAV saw him in the 
chamber. 

At an early hour next morning the 
Bishop arrived, and AVas closeted for 
some time Avith his master in his OAvn 
apartment, Avhere the Prince laid open 
to his counsellor the Avrongs Avhich, 
according to his Aversion, he had re- 
ceived from the gentlemen of the Es- 
mond family. The Avorthy prelate 
came out from the conference with an 
air of great satisfaction ; he Avas a 
man full of resources, and of a most 
assured fidelity, and possessed of ge- 
nius, and a hundred good qualities ; 
but captious and of a most jealous 
temper, that could not help exulting 
at the doAvnfall of any favorite ; and 
he was pleased in spite of himself to 
hear that the Esmond Ministry Avas 
at an end. 

“ I haA'e soothed your guest,” says 
he, coming out to the tAAO gentlemen 
and the Avidow, who had been made 
acquainted Avith someAvhat of the dis- 
pute of the night before. (By the 
version avo gave her, the Prince Avas 
only made to exhibit anger because 
Ave doubted of his intentions in re- 
spect to Beatrix; and to leaA'C us. 


276 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


because we questioned his honor). 
“ But I think, all things considered, 
•tis as well he should leave this 
house; and then, ray Lady Castle- 
wood,” says the Bishoj), “ ray pretty 
Beatrix may come back to it.” 

“ She is quite as well at home at 
Castlewood,” Esmond’s mistress said, 
“ till everything is over.” 

“ You shall have your title, Es- 
mond, that I promise you,” says the 
good Bishop, assuming the airs of a 
Prime Minister. “The Prince hath 
expressed himself most nobly in re- 
gal’d of the little difference of last 
night, and I promise you he hath lis- 
tened to my sermon, as well as to 
that of other folks,” says the Doctor, 
archly; “he hath every great and 
generous quality, with peihaps a 
weakness for the sex which belongs 
to his family, and hath been known 
in scores of popular sovereigns from 
King David downwards.” 

“ My Lord, my Lord ! ” breaks out 
Lady Esmond, “ the levity with wdiich 
you speak of such conduct towards 
our sex shocks me, and wdiat you call 
•weakness 1 call deplorable sin.” 

“ Sin it is, my dear creature,” says 
the Bishop, -vvith a shrug, taking 
snuff; “but consider "W'hat a sinner 
King Solomon -was, and in spite of a 
thousand of wives too.” 

“ Enough of this, my Lord,” says 
Lady Castleivood, with a tine blush, 
and walked out of the room very 
stately. 

The Prince entered it presently 
with a smile on his face, and if he 
felt any offence against us on the pre- 
vious night, at present exhibited 
none. He offered a hand to each 
gentleman with great courtesy. “ If 
all your bishops preach so w^ell as 
Doctor Atterbury,” says he, “ I don’t 
know, gentlemen, w'hat may happen 
to me. I spoke very hastily, my 
Lords, last night, and ask pardon of 
both of you. But I must not stay 
any longer,” says he, “ giving um- 
brage to good friends, or keeping 
retty girls away from their homes, 
ly Lord Bishop hath found a safe 


place for me, hard by at a curate’s 
house, whom the Bishop can trust, 
and whose wife is so ugly as to be be- 
yond all danger; -we will decamp into 
those new quarters, and 1 leave you, 
thanking you for a hundred kind- 
nesses here. Where is my hostess, 
that I may bid her farcw'cll ; to wel- 
come her in a house of my own, soon, 
I trust, where my friends shall have 
no cause to quarrel with me.” 

Lady Castlewood arrived present- 
ly, blushing with great grace, and 
tears filling her eyes as tlie Prince 
graciously saluted her. She looked 
so charming and young, that the 
Doctor, in his bantering way, 
could not help speaking of her beauty 
to the Prince; whose compliment 
made her blush, and look more charm- 
ing still. 

♦ — 

CHAPTER XII. 

A GREAT SCHEME, AXD W’HO BALKED 
IT. 

As characters w’rittcn with a secret 
ink come out with the application of 
fire, and disappear again and leave 
the paper white, so soon as it is cool; 
a hundred names of men, high in re- 
pute and favoring the Prince’s cause, 
that were writ in our private lists, 
would liavc been visible enough on 
the great roll of the conspiracy, had it 
ever been laid open under the sun. 
What crowds Avould have pressed 
forAvard, and subscribed their names 
and protested their loyalty, when the 
danger w'Jts over! What a number 
of Whigs, noAV high in place and crea- 
tures of the all-pOAverful Minister, 
scorned Mr. Walpole then ! If ever 
a match Avas gained by the manliness 
and decision of a few at a moment of 
danger; if ever one Avas lost by the 
treachery and imbecility of tliose 
that had' the cards in their hands, and 
might hav'c played them, it Avas in 
that momentous game Avhich Avas en- 
acted in the next three days, and of 
Avhich the noblest crowm in the AA'orld 
Avas the stake. 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


277 


From the conduct of my Lord Bo- 
lingbroke, those who were interested 
in the scheme we had in hand saw 
pretty well that he was not to be trust- 
ed. Should the Ih'ince prevail, it was 
his Lordship’s gracious intention to 
declare for him ; should the Hanove- 
rian party bring in their sovereign, 
who more ready to go on his knee, 
and cry, “ God save King George ” 1 
And he betrayed the one prince and 
the other ; but exactly at the wrong 
time. When he should have struck 
for King J ames, he faltered and co- 
quetted with the Whigs ; and having 
committed himself by the most mon- 
strous professions of devotion, which 
the Elector rightly scorned, he proved 
the justness of their contempt for him 
by Hying and taking renegade service 
with St. Germains, just when he 
should have kept aloof : and that 
Court despised him, as the manly and 
resolute men who established the Elec- 
tor in England had before done. He 
signed his own name to every accusa- 
tion of insincerity his enemies made 
against him ; and the King and the 
Pretender alike could show proofs of 
St. John’s treachery under his own 
hand and seal. 

Our friends kept a pretty close 
watch upon his motions, as qn those 
of the brave and hearty Whig party, 
that made little concealment of theirs. 
They would have in the Elector, and 
used every means in their power to 
effect their end. My Lord Marl- 
borough was now with them. His ex- 
pulsion from power by the Tories had 
thrown that great captain at once on 
the Whi^ side. We heard he was 
coming from Antwerp ; and, in fact, 
on the day of the Queen’s death, he 
once more landed on English shore. 
A great part of the army was always 
with their illustrious leader ; even the 
Tories in it were indignant at the in- 
justice of the persecution which the 
Whig officers were made to undergo. 
The chiefs of these were in London, 
and at the head of them one of the most 
intrepid men in the world, the Scots 
Duke of Argyle, whose conduct on 


the second day after that to which I 
have now brought down my history, 
ended, as such honesty and bravery de- 
served to end, by establishing the pres- 
ent Royal race on the English throne. 

Meanwhile there Avas no slight dif- 
ference of opinion amongst the coun- 
cillors surrounding the Prince, as to 
the plan his Highness should pursue. 
His female Minister at Court, fancy- 
ing she saAV some amelioration in the 
Queen, was for Availing a fcAv days, or 
hours it might be, until he could be 
brought to her bedside, and acknoAvl- 
edged as her heir. Mr. Esmond Avas 
for having him march thither, escort- 
ed by a couple of troops of Horse 
Guards, and openly presenting him- 
self to the Council. During the whole 
of the night of the 29th-30tli July, the ' 
Colonel was engaged with gentlemen 
of the military profession, Avhom ’tis 
needless here to name ; suffice it to say 
that several of them had exceeding 
high rank in the army, and one of them 
in especial Avas a General, Avho, Avhen 
he heard the Duke of Marlborough 
Avas coming on the other side, Avaved 
his crutch over his head Avith a huz- 
za, at the idea that he should march 
out and engage him. Of the three 
Secretaries of State, we kneAV that 
one Avas deA^oted to us. The Gover- 
nor of the ToAver Avas ours ; the two 
companies on duty at Kensington 
barrack Avere safe ; and avc had in- 
telligence, A^ery speedy and accurate, 
of all that took place at the Palace 
Avithin. 

At noon, on the 30th of July, a mes- 
sage came to the Prince’s friends that 
the Committee of Council Avas sitting 
at Kensington Palace, their Graces of 
Ormonde and ShreAVsbury, the Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury and the three 
Secretaries of State, being there as- 
sembled. In an hour, afteiavards, 
hurried neAvs Avas brought that the 
tAvo great Whig dukes, Argyle and 
Somerset, had broke into the Coun- 
cil-chamber Avithout a summons, and 
taken their seat at table. After hold- 
ing a debate there, the Avhole party pro- 
ceeded to the chamber of the Queen, 


278 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


wlio Avas lying in great Aveakncss, but 
still sensible, and the Lords recom- 
mended his Grace of Shrewsbury as 
the tittest person to take the vacant 
place of Lord Treasurer; her Majes- 
ty gave him the staff, as all know. 
“ And now,’' writ my messenger from 
Court, “ now or never is the time.” 

Now or never Avas the time indeed. 
In spite of the Whig dukes, our side 
had still the majority in the Council, 
and Esmond, to Avhom the message 
had been brought (the personage at 
Court not being aAvare that the Prince 
liad quitted his lodging in Kensington 
Square), and Esmond’s gallant young 
aide-de-camp, Frank CastleAvood, put- 
ting on SAvord and uniform, took a 
brief leave of their dear lady, Avho em- 
braced and blessed them both, and 
Avent to her chamber to pray for the 
issue of the great event Avhich Avas then 
pending. 

CastleAvood sped to the barrack to 
give Avarning to the captain of the 
Guard there ; and then Avent to the 
“ King’s Arms ” tavern at Kensing- 
ton, Avhere our friends AA’ere assembled, 
having come by parties of tAvos and 
threes, riding or in coaches, and Avere 
got together in the upper chamber, 
fifty-three of them ; their servants, 
Avho had been instructed to bring 
arms likeAvise, being below in the gar- 
den of the tavern, Avhere they Avere 
served Avdth drink. Out of this gar- 
den is a little door that leads into the 
road of the Palace, and through this 
it Avas arranged that masters and ser- 
vants Avere to march ; Avhen that sig- 
nal was given, and that Personage ap- 
peared, lor Avhom all AA^ere Avaiting. 
There Avas in our company the famous 
officer next in command to the Cap- 
tain-General of the P'orccs, his Grace 
the Duke of Ormonde, Avho aauis Avith- 
in at the Council. There were Avith 
him two more lieutenant-generals, 
nine major-generals and brigadiers, 
seven colonels, eleven peers of Parlia- 
ment, and twenty one members of the 
House of Commons. The Guard 
Avas Avith us Avithin and Avithout the 
Palace : the Queen was with us ; the 


Council (saA'c the tAVo Whig dukes, 
that must have succumbed) ; the day 
Avas our oAvn, and Avith a beating 
heart Esmond w'alked rapidly to the 
Mall of Kensington, Avhere he had part- 
ed Avith the Prince on the night before. 
For three nights the Colonel had not 
been to bed : the last had been passed 
summoning the Prince’s friends to- 
gether, of Avhom the great majority 
had no sort of inkling of the transac- 
tion pending until they Avere told that 
he Avas actually on the spot, and Avere 
summoned to strike the bloAv. The 
night before and after the altercation 
Avith the Prince, my gentleman, hav- 
ing sus])icions of his Royal Highness, 
and fearing lest he should be minded 
to give us the slip, and fiy off after his 
fugitive beauty, had spent, if the truth 
must be told, at the “Greyhound” 
tavern, over against my Lady Es- 
mond’s house in Kensington Square, 
Avith an eye on the door, lest the 
i Prince should escape from it. The 
night before that he had passed in his 
I boots at the “ CroAvn” at HounsloAv, 

I Avhero he must w’atch forsooth all 
: night, ill order to get one moment’s 
i glimpse of Beatrix in the morning. 
And fate had decreed that he Avas to 
haA^e a fourth night’s ride and wakeful- 
ness before his business W’as ended. 

He ran to the curate’s house in 
Kensington Mall, and asked for Mr. 
Bates, the name the Prince Avent by. 
The curate’s Avife said Mr. Bates had 
gone abroad very early in the morn- 
ing in his boots, saying he was going 
to the Bishop of Eochestcr’s house at 
Chelsey. But the Bishop had been at 
Kensington himself tAvo hours ago to 
seek for Mr. Bates, and had returned 
I in his coach to his OAvn house, Avhen 
he heard that the gentleman Avas gone 
thither to seek him. 

This absence Avas most unpropi- 
tious, for an hour’s delay might cost a 
kingdom ; Esmond had nothing for it 
but to hasten to the “ King’s Arms,” 
and tell the gentlemen there assem- 
bled that Mr. George (as AA^e called 
the Prince there) Avas not at home, 
but that Esmond Avould go fetch him ; 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


279 


and taking a General’s coach that 
happened to be there, Esmond drove 
across the country to Chelsey, to the 
Bishop’s house there. 

The porter said two gentlemen were 
with his Lordship, and Esmond ran 
past this sentry up to the locked door 
of the Bishop’s study, at which he 
rattled and was admitted presently. 
Of the Bishop’s guests one was a 
brother prelate, and the other the 
Abbe G— . 

“ Where is Mr. George 1 ” says Mr. 
Esmond ; “ now is the time.” The 
Bishop looked scared : “ I went to his 
lodging, ’’ he said, “ and they told me 
he was come hither. I returned as 
quick as coach would carry me ; and 
he hath not been here.” 

The Colonel burstout with an oath ; 
that was all he could say to their Rev- 
erences ; ran down the stairs again, 
and bidding the coachman, an old 
friend and campaigner, drive as if he 
was charging the French with his 
master at Wynendacl, — they were 
back at Kensington in half an hour. 

Again Esmond went to the curate’s 
house. Mr. George had not returned. 
The Colonel had to go with this blank 
errand to the gentlemen at the “King’s 
Arms, ” that were grown very impa- 
tient by this time. 

Out of the window of the tavern, 
and looking over the garden wall, you 
can see the green before Kensington 
Palace, the Palace gate (round which 
the ministers’ coaches were standing), 
and the barrack building. As we were 
looking out from this wimlow in 
gloomy discourse, we heard presently 
trumpets blowing, and some of us ran 
to the window of the front room, look- 
ingintothe High Street of Kensington, 
and saw a regiment of Horse coming. 

“ It ’s Ormonde’s Guards,” says 
one. “ No, by God, it ’s Argyle’s old 
regiment ! ” says my General, clap- 
ping down his crutch. 

It was, indeed, Argyle’s regiment 
that was brought from Westminster, 
and that took the place of the regi- 
ment at Kensington on which we 
could rely. _ 


“ O Harry ! ” says one of the Gen- 
erals there present, “ you w^ere boi'n 
under an unlucky star ; I begin to 
think that there ’s no Mr. George, nor 
Mr. Dragon cither. ’ F is not the 
peerage I care I'or, for our name is so 
ancient and famous, that merely to be 
called Lord Lydiard would do me no 
good ; but ’t is the chance you prom- 
ised me of fighting Marlborough.” 

As we were talking, Castlewood 
entered the room with a disturbed air. 

“ What news, Frank ” says the 
Colonel. “ Is Mr. George coming at 
last ? ” 

“ Damn him, look here ! ” says Cas- 
tlcwood, holding out a paper. “ 1 
found it in the book — the what you 
call it, ‘ Eikum Basilikum,’ — that vil- 
lain Martin put it there, — he said his 
young mistress bade him. It was di- 
rected to me, but it Avas meant for him, 
I know, and I broke the seal and read 
it.” 

The whole assembly ofofficers seemed 
to swim away before Esmond’s eyes 
as he read the paper ; all that Avas 
written on it Avas : — “Beatrix Es- 
mond is sent aAvay to prison, to Cas- 
tlcAvood, Avhere she Avill pray for hap- 
pier days.” 

“ Can you guess Avherc he is 1 ” says 
CastleAvood. 

“ Yes,” says Colonel Esmond. He 
kncAV full AA^ell, Frank kncAv lull Avell : 
our instinct told Avhither that traitor 
had fled. 

He had courage to turn to the com- 
pany and say, “ Gentlemen, I fear 
very much that Mr. George will not 
be here to-day ; something hath hap- 
pened, — and — and — I A^ery much 
fear some accident may befall him, 
which must keep him out of the Avay. 
Having had your noon’s draught, you 
had best pay the reckoning and go 
home ; there can be no game Avherc 
there is no one to play it.” 

Some of the gentlemen Avent aAvay 
Avithout a Avord, others called to 
pay their duty to her Majesty and 
ask for her health. The little army 
disappeared into the darkness out of 
Avhich it had been called ; there had 


280 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


been no writings, no paper to impli- 
cate any man. Some few officers and 
Members of Parliament had been in- 
vited overnight to breakfast at the 
“ King’s Arms,” at Kensington ; and 
they had called for their bill and gone 
home. 

« 

CHAPTEE XIII. 

AUGUST 1st, 1714. 

“ Does my mistress know of this ? ” 
Esmond asked of Prank, as they 
walked along. 

“ My mother found the letter in 
the book, on the toilet-table. She 
had writ it ere she had left home,” 
Prank said. “Mother met her on 
the stairs, with her hand- upon the 
door, trying to enter, and never left 
her after that till she went away. 
He did not think of looking at it 
there, nor had Martin the chance of 
telling him. I believe the poor devil 
meant no harm, though I half killed 
him ; he thought ’t Avas to Beatrix’s 
brother he was bringing the letter.” 

Prank ncA^er said a word of re- 
proach to me for having brought the 
villain amongst us. -As we knocked 
at the door I said, “ When will the 
horses be ready 1 ” Prank pointed 
Avith his cane, they Avere turning the 
street at that moment. 

We Avent up and bade adieu to 
our mistress ; * she AA'as in a dread- 
ful state of agitation by this time, and 
that Bishop Avas Avith her whose com- 
pany she Avas so fond of. 

“ Did you tell him, my Lord,” 
says Esmond, “ that Beatrix Avas at 
CastlcAvood ? ” The Bishop blushed 
and stammered : “ Well,” says he, 

«< j » 

“ You served the villain right,” 
broke out Mr. Esmond, “ and he has 
lost a crown by Avhat you told him.” 

My mistress turned quite A\hite, 
“ Henry, Henry,” says she, “ do not 
kill him.” 

“ It may not be too late,” says Es- 
mond; “he may not have gone to 
CastleAvood ; pray God, it is not too 


late.” The Bishop AAms breaking o.it 
Avith some hanale phrases about loyal- 
ty, and the sacredness of the Sover- 
eign’s person ; but Esmond sternly 
bade him hold his tongue, burn all 
papers, and take care of Lady Castle- 
Avood ; and in fiA'c minutes he and 
Prank Avere in the saddle, John Lock- 
wood behind them, riding toAvards 
CastleAvood at a rapid pace. 

We Avere just got to Alton, Avhen 
Avho should meet us but old Lock- 
Avood, the porter from CastleAvood, 
John’s father, Avalking by the side of 
the Hexham flying-coach, Avho slept 
the night at Alton. LockAvood said 
his young mistress had arriA'ed at 
home on Wednesday night, and this 
morning, Priday, had despatched him 
with a packet for my Lady at Ken- 
sington, saying the letter was of great 
importance. 

We took the freedom to break it, 
Avhile LockAvood stared with Avonder, 
and cried out his “ Lord bless me’s,” 
and “ Who ’d a thought it’s,” at the 
sight of his young lord, Avhom he 
had not seen these seven years. 

The packet from Beatrix contained 
no ncAvs of importance at all. It Avas 
Avritten in a jocular strain, affecting 
to make light of her captivity. She 
asked Avhethcr she might have leave 
to visit Mrs. Tushcr, or to Avalk be- 
yond the court and the garden Avail. 
She gave ncAvs of the peacocks, and a 
fawn she had there. She bade her 
mother send her certain goAvns and 
smocks by old Lockwood; she sent 
her duty to a certain Person, if certain 
Other persons permitted her to take 
such a freedom ; hoAv that, as she Avas 
not able to play cards Avith him, she 
hoped he Avould read good books, 
such as Doctor Atterbury’s sermons 
and “ Eikon Basilike ” : she Av as 
going to read good books ; she thought 
her pretty mamma Avould like to knoAV 
she Avas not crying her eyes out. 

“ Who is in the house besides you, 
LockAA-ood ? ” says the Colonel. 

“ There be the laundry-maid, and 
the. kitchen-maid^ Madam Beatrix’s 
maid, the man from London, and that 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


281 


be all ; and he sleepeth in my lod<;e 
away from the maids,” says old 
Lockwood. 

Esmond scribbled a line with a 
pencil on the note, giving it to the 
old man, and bidding him go on to 
his lady. We knew why Beatrix had 
been so dutiful on a sudden, and why 
she spoke of “ Eikon Basilike.” She 
writ this letter to put the Prince on the 
scent, and the porter out of the way. 

“ We have a fine moonlight night 
for riding on,” says Esmond ; “Frank, 
we may reach Castlewood in time 
yet.” All the way along they made 
inquiries at the post-houses, when a 
tall young gentleman in a gray suit, 
with a light brown periwig, just the 
color of my Lord’s, had been seen to 
pass. He had set olf at six that 
morning, and we at three in the 
afternoon. He rode almost as quickly 
as we had done ; he was seven hours 
ahead of us still when we reached 
the last stage. 

We rode over Castlewood Downs 
before the breaking of dawn. We 
passed the very spot where the car 
was upset fourteen years since, and 
Mohun lay. The village was not up 
yet, nor the forge lighted, as we rode 
through it, passing by the elms, where 
the rooks were still roosting, and by 
the church, and over the bridge. We 
got off our horses at the bridge and 
walked up to the gate. 

“ If she is safe,” says Frank, trem- 
bling, and his honest eyes filling with 
tears, “ a silver statue to Our Lady ! ” 
He was going to rattle at the great 
iron knocker on the oak gate ; but 
Esmond stopped his kinsman’s hand. 
He had his own fears, his own hopes, 
his own despairs and griefs, too ; but 
he spoke not a word of these to his 
companion, or showed any signs of 
emotion. 

He went and tapped at the little 
window at the porter’s lodge, gently, 
but repeatedly, until the man came to 
the bars. 

“ Who ’s there 1 ” says he, looking 
out ; it was the servant from Ken- 
sington. 


“ My Lord Castlewood and Colonel 
Esmond,” we said, from below. 
“ Open the gate and let us in without 
any noise.” 

“ My Lord Castlewood ? ” says the 
other ; “ my Lord ’s here, and in bed.” 

“Open. d n you,” says Castle- 

wood, with a curse. 

“ I shall open to no one,” says the 
man, shutting the glass window as 
Frank drew a pistol. He would have 
fired at the porter, but Esmond again 
held his hand. 

“ There are more ways than one,” 
says he, “of entering such a great 
house as this.” Frank grumbled that 
the west gate was half a mile round. 
“ But I know of a way that ’s not a 
hundred yards off,” says Mr. Es- 
mond ; and leading his kinsman close 
along the wall, and by the shrubs 
which had now grown thick on what 
had been an old moat about the 
house, they came to the buttress, at 
the side of which the little window 
w'as, which was Father Holt’s private 
door. Esmond climbed up to this 
easily, broke a pane that had been 
mended, and touched the spring inside, 
and the two gentlemen passed in that 
way, treading as lightly as they could ; 
and so going through the passage 
into the court, over which the dawn 
was now reddening, and where the 
fountain plashed in the silence. 

They sped instantly to the porter’s 
lodge, where the fellow had not fas- 
tened his door that led into the court ; 
and pistol in hand came upon the 
terrified wretch, and bade him be 
silent. Then they asked him (Es- 
mond’s head reeled, and he almost 
fell as he spoke) when Lord Castle- 
wood had arrived? He said on the 
previous evening, about eight of the 
clock. — “ And what then ? ” — His 
Lordship supped with his sister. — 
“Did the man wait?” Yes, he and 
my lady’s maid both waited : the 
other servants made the supper ; and 
there was no wine, and they could 
give his Lordship but milk, at which 
he grumbled; and — and Madam 
Beatrix kept Miss Lucy always in the 


282 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


room with her. And there beinj^ a 
bed across the court in the Chaplain’s 
room, she had arran.'jed my I.,ord was 
to sleep there. Madam Beatrix had 
come down stairs laughing with the 
maids, and had locked herself in, 
and my Lord had stood for a while 
talking to her through the door, and 
she laughing at him. And then he 
paced the court awhile, and she came 
again to the upper window ; and my 
Lord implored her to come down and 
walk in the room ; but she would not, 
and laughed at him again, and shut 
the window ; and so my Lord, utter- 
ing what seemed curses, but in a 
foreign language, went to the Chap- 
lain’s room to bed. 

“Was this all!” — “All,” the 
man swore upon his honor ; all as he 
hoped to be saved — Stop, there was 
one thing more. My Lord, on arriv- 
ing, and once or twice during supper, 
did kiss his sister, as was natural, and 
she kissed him.” At this Esmond 
ground his teeth with rage, and well- 
nigh throttled the amazed miscreant 
Avho was speaking, whereas Castle- 
wood, seizing hold of his cousin’s 
hand, burst into a great fit of 
laughter. 

“ If it amuses thee,” says Esmond 
in French, “ that your sister should 
be exchanging of kisses with a 
stranger, I fear poor Beatrix will give 
thee plenty of sport.” — Esmond dark- 
ly thought, how Hamilton, Ashburn- 
ham, had before been masters of those 
roses that the young Prince’s lips 
were now feeding on. He sickened 
at that notion. Her cheek was dese- 
crated, her beauty tarnished ; shame 
and honor stood between it and him. 
The love was dead within him ; had 
she a crown to bring him with her 
love, he felt that both would degrade 
him. 

But this wrath against Beatrix did 
not lessen the angry feelings of the 
Colonel against the man who had 
been the occasion if not the cause of 
the evil. Frank sat down on a stone 
bench in the courtyard, and fairly 
fell asleep, while Esmond paced up 


and down the court, debating what 
should ensue. What mattered how 
much or how little had passed be- 
tween the Prince and the poor faith- 
less girl ? They were arrived in time 
perhaps to rescue her person, but not 
her mind ; had she not instigated the 
young Prince to come to her; sub- 
orned servants, dismissed others, so 
that she might communicate with 
him ? The treacherous heart within 
her had surrendered, though the place 
was safe; and it was to win this that 
he had given a life’s struggle and de- 
votion ; this, that she was ready to 
give away for the bribe of a coronet 
or a wink of the Prince’s eye. 

When he had thought his thoughts 
out he shook up poor Frank from his 
sleep, who rose yawning, and said 
he had been dreaming of Clotilda. 
“ You must back me,” says Esmond, 
“ in what I am going to do. I have 
been thinking that yonder scoundrel 
may have been instructed to tell that 
story, and that the whole of it may 
be a lie ; if it be, we shall find it out 
from the gentleman who is asleep 
yonder. See if the door leading to 
my Lady’s rooms ” (so we called the 
rooms at the northwest angle of the 
house), “ see if the door is barred as 
he saith.” We tried; it was indeed 
as the lackey had said, closed -within. 

“It may have been opened and 
shut afterwards,” says poor Esmond ; 
“ the foundress of our family let our 
ancestor in in that way.” 

“ What will you do, Harry, if — if 
what that fello-w saith should turn out 
untrue?” The young man looked 
scared and frightened into his kins- 
man’s face ; I dare say it wore no 
very pleasant expression. 

“Let us first go see whether the 
two stories agree,” says Esmond ; 
and went in at the passage and opened 
the door into what had been his own 
chamber now for w’ellnigh five-and- 
twenty years. A candle was still 
burning, and the Prince asleep 
dressed on the bed, — Esmond did not 
care for making a noise. The Prince 
started up in his bed, seeing two men 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 283 


in his chamber : “ Qui est la ? ” says 
he, and took a pistol from under his 
pillow. 

“It is the Marquis of Esmond,” 
says the Colonel, “ come to welcome 
his Majesty to his house of Castle- 
wood, and to i-eporfc of what hath 
happened in Loudon. Pursuant to 
the King’s orders, I passed the night 
before last, after leaving his Majesty, 
in waiting upon the friends of the 
King. It is a pity that his Majesty’s 
desire to see the country and to visit 
our poor house should have caused 
the King to quit London without no- 
tice yesterday, when the opportunity 
happened which in all human proba- 
bility may not occur again ; and had 
the king not chosen to ride to Castle- 
wood, the Prince of Wales might 
have slept at St. James’s.” 

“ ’Sdeath ! gentlemen,” says the 
Prince, starting off his bed, whereon 
he was lying in his clothes, “ the Doc- 
tor was with me yesterday morning, 
and after watching by my sister all 
night, told me I might not hope to 
see the Queen.” 

“ It would have been otherwise,” 
says Esmond, with another bow ; “ as, 
by this time, the Queen may be dead 
in spite of the Doctor. The Council 
was met, a new Treasurer was ap- 
pointed, the troops were devoted to the 
King’s cause ; and fifty loyal gentle- 
men of the greatest names of this 
kingdom were assembled to accompa- 
ny the Prince of Wales, who might 
have been the acknowledged heir of 
the throne, or the ])ossessor of it by 
this time, had your Majesty not cho- 
sen to take the air. We were ready ; 
there was only one person that failed 
us, your Majesty’s gracious — ” 

“ Morbleu, Monsieur, you give me 
too much Majesty,” said the Prince, 
who had now risen up and seemed to 
be looking to one of us to help him to 
his coat. But neither stirred. 

“ We shall take care,” says Es- 
mond, “ not much oftener to offend in 
that particular.” 

“ What mean you, my Lord ? ” says 
the Prince, and muttered something i 


about a guet-a-pens, which Esmond 
caught up. 

“ The snare, sir,” said he, “ Avas not 
of our laying ; it is not A\'e that invited 
you. We came to avenge, and not to 
compass, the dishonor of our family.” 

“ Dishonor ! Morbleu, there has 
been no dishonor,” says the Prince, 
turning scarlet, “ only a little harmless 
playing.” 

“ That Avas meant to end serious- 
ly” 

“I swear,” the Prince broke out 
impetuously, “ upon the honor of a 
gentleman, my Lords — ” 

“ That Ave arrived in time. No 
Avrong hath been done, FYank,” says 
Colonel Esmond, turning round to 
young CastleAvood, Avho stood at the 
door as the talk Avas going on. “ See ! 
here is a paper Avhereon his Majesty 
hath deigned to commence some ver- 
ses in honor, or dishonor, of Beatrix. 
Here is ‘ Madame ’ and ‘ Elamme,’ 
‘ Cruelle ’ and ‘ Rebelle,’ and ‘ Amour ’ 
and ‘ Jour,’ in the Royal Avriting and 
spelling. Had the Gracious lover 
been happy, he had not passed his 
time in sighing.” In fact, and actu- 
ally as he Avas speaking, Esmond cast 
his ey'^es doAvn towards the table, and 
saAv a paper on Avhich my young 
Prince had been scraAvling a madrigal, 
that Avas to finish his charmer on the 
morroAv. 

/‘Sir,” says the Prince, burning 
Avith rage (he had assumed his Royal 
coat unassisted by this time), “ did I 
come here to receive insults 1 ” 

“To confer them, may it please 
your Majesty,” says the Colonel, Avith 
a veiy low bow, “ and the gentlemen 
of our family are come to thank you.” 

“ Malediction ! ” says the young 
man, tears starting into his eyes 
with helpless rage and mortification. 
“ What Avill you Avith me, gentle- 
men ? ” 

“ If your Majesty Avill please to en- 
ter the next apartment,” says Esmond, 
preserving his grave tone, “ I have 
some papers there which I Avould 
gladly submit to you, and by your 
permission I Avill lead the Avay ” ; and. 


284 


THE JIISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


taking the taper up, and backing be- 
fore the Prince with very great cere- 
mony, Mr. Esmond passed into the 
little Chaplain’s room, through which 
we had just entered into the house : — 
“ Please to set a chair for his Majesty, 
Frank,” says the Colonel to his com- 
panion, who wondered almost as much 
at this scene, and was as much 
puzzled by it, as the other actor in it. 
Then going to the crypt over the 
mantel-piece, the Colonel opened it, 
and drew thence the papers which so 
long had lain there. 

“ Here, may it please your Majes- 
ty,” says he, “is the Patent of Mar- 
quis sent over by your Royal Father 
at St. Germains to Viscount Castle- 
wood, my father : here is the wit- 
nessed certificate of my father’s mar- 
riage to my mother, and of my birth 
and christening ; I Avas christened of 
that religion of which your sainted 
sire gave all through life so shining 
example. These arc my titles, dear 
Frank, and this what I do with them : 
here go Baptism and Marriage, and 
here the Marquisate and the August 
Sign-Manual, with which your prede- 
cessor was pleased to honor our race.” 
And as Esmond spoke, he set the pa- 
pers burning in the brazier. “You 
Avill please, sir, to remember,” he con- 
tinued, “ that our family hath ruined 
itself by fidelity to yours : that my 
grandfather spent his estate, and gave 
his blood and his son to die for your 
service ; that my dear lord’s grandfa- 
ther (for lord you are now, Frank, by 
right and title too) died for the same 
cause ; that my poor kinswoman, my 
father’s second Avife, after giving aAvay 
her honor to your wicked perjured 
race, sent all her Avealth to the King ; 
and got in return that precious title 
that lies in ashes, and this inestima- 
ble yard of blue ribbon. I lay this at 
your feet and stamp upon it ; I draw 
this SAvord, and break it and deny 
you ; and, had you completed the 
wrong you designed us, by Heaven I 
Avould have driven it through your 
heart, and no more pardoned you than 
your father pardoned Monmouth. 


Frank will do the same, won’t you, 
cousin 1 ” 

Frank, who had been looking on 
Avith a stupid air at the papers, as 
they flamed in the old brazier, took 
out his SAvord and broke it, holding 
his head doAvn : — “I go Avith my 
cousin,” says he, giving Esmond a 
grasp of the hand. “ Marquis or not, 

by , I stand by him any day. I 

beg your Majesty’s pardon for SAvear- 
ing ; that is — that is — I ’m for the 
Elector of Hanover. It ’s all your 
Majesty’s own fault. The Queen ’s 
dead most likely by this time. And 
3 ’ou might have been king if you 
had n’t come dangling after ’Trix.” 

“ Thus to lose a croAvn,” says the 
young Prince, starting up, and speak- 
ing French in his eager Avay ; “ to 
lose the loveliest woman in the Avorld ; 
to lose the loyalty of such hearts as 
yours, is not this, my Lords, enough 
of humiliation ? — Marquis, if I go 
on my knees Avill you pardon me ? — 
No, I can’t do that, but I can offer 
you reparation, that of honor, that of 
gentlemen. Favor me by crossing 
the sword Avith mine : yours is broke, 
— see, yonder in the armoire are 
tAA'O ” ; and the Prince took them out 
as eager as a boy, and held them 
tOAvards Esmond : — “ Ah ! you will ? 
Merci, monsieur, merci ! ” 

Extremely touched by this im- 
mense mark of condescension and re- 
pentance for Avrong done. Colonel 
Esmond boAved doAvn so low as al- 
most to kiss the gracious young hand 
that conferred on him such an honor, 
and took his guard in silence. The 
sAvords Avere no sooner met, than Cas- 
tlcAvood knocked up Esmond’s Avith 
the blade of his OAvn, Avhich he had 
broke off short at the shell ; and the 
Colonel falling back a step dropped 
his point Avith another A'cry Ioav boAv, 
and declared himself perfectly satisfied 

“ Eh bien, Vicomte ! ” says the 
young Prince, Avho Avas a boy, and a 
French boy, “il no nous rcste qu’une 
chose a faire ” : he placed his SAvord 
upon the table, and the fingers of his 
two hands upon his breast : — “ Wo 


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The Last of Beatrix. 







THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


285 


Iiave one more thing to do,” says he ; 
“ you do not divine it 'I ” He sti-etched 
out his arms : — “ Emhrassons nous ! ” 

The talk was scarce over when 
Beatrix entered the room : — What 
came she to seek there 'i She started 
and turned pale at the sight of her 
brother and kinsman, drawn swords, 
broken sword-blades, and papers yet 
smouldering in the brazier. 

“ Charming Beatrix,” says the 
Prince, with a blush which became 
him very well, “ these lords have 
come a-horseback from London, where 
my sister lies in a despaired state, and 
where her successor makes himself de- 
sired. Pardon me for my escapade 
of last evening. I had been so long a 
prisoner, that I seized the occasion 
of a promenade on horseback, and my 
horse naturally bore me towards you. 
I found you a Queen in your little 
court, where you deigned to entertain 
me. Present my homages to your 
maids of honor. I sighed as you 
slept, under the window of your 
chamber, and then retired to seek 
rest in my own. It was there that 
these gentlemen agreeably roused 
me. Yes, milords, for that is a hap- 
py day that makes a prince acquaint- 
ed, at whatever cost to his vanity, 
with such a noble heart as that of the 
Marquis of Esmond. Mademoiselle, 
may we take your coach to town 1 I 
saw it in the hangar, and this poor 
Marquis must be dropping with sleep.” 

“ Will it please the King to break- 
fast before he goes ? ” was all Bea- 
trix could say. The roses had shud- 
dered out of her cheeks; her eyes 
were glaring ; she looked quite old. 
She came up to Esmond and hissed out 
a word or two : — “ If I did not love 
you before, cousin,” says she, “ think 
how I love you now.” If words 
could stab, no doubt she would have 
killed Esmond ; she looked at him as 
if she could. 

But her keen words gave no wound 
to Mr. Esmond ; his heart was too 
hard. As he looked at her, he won- 
dered that he could ever have loved 
her. His love of ten years was over j 


it fell down dead on the spot, at the 
Kensington Tavern, Avhere Frank 
brought him the note out of “ Eikon 
Basilike.” The Prince blushed and 
bowed low, as she gazed at him, and 
quitted the chamber. I have never 
seen her from that day. 

Horses were fetched and put to the 
chariot presently. My Lord rode out- 
side, and as for Esmond he was so 
tired that he was no sooner in the 
carriage than he fell asleep, and never 
woke till night, as the coach came 
into Alton. 

As we drove to the “ Bell ” Inn 
comes a mitred coach with our old 
friend Lockwood beside the coach- 
man. My Lady Castle wood and the 
Bishop were inside ; she gave a little 
scream when she saw us. The two 
coaches entered the inn almost togeth- 
er ; the landlord and people coming 
out with lights to welcome the visitors. 

We in our coach sprang out of it, 
as soon as ever we saw the dear lady, 
and above all, the Doctor in his cas- 
sock. What was the news'? Was 
there yet time ? Was the Queen 
alive? These questions were put 
hurriedly, as Boniface stood waiting 
before his noble guests to bow them 
up the stair. 

“ Is she safe ? ” was what Lady 
Castlewood whispered in a flutter to 
Esmond. 

“ All 's well, thank God,” says he, 
as the fond lady took his hand and 
kissed it, and called him her preserver 
and her dear. She was n’t thinking 
of Queens and crowns. 

The Bishop’s news was reassuring ; 
at least all was not lost ; the Queen 
yet breathed, or was alive when they 
left London, six hours since. (“It 
was Lady Castlewood who insisted on 
coming,” the Doctor said.) Argyle 
had marched up regiments from 
Portsmouth, and sent abroad for 
more ; the Whigs were on the alert, 
a pest on them (I am not sure but 
the Bishop swore as he spoke), and 
so too were our people. And all 
might be saved, if only the Prince 
could be at London in time. We 


28G 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


callccJ for horses, instantly to return 
to London. We never went up poor 
crestfallen Boniface’s stairs, but into 
our coaches again. The Prince and 
his Prime jMinister in one, Esmond 
in the other, with only his dear mis- 
tress as a companion. 

Castlcwood galloped forwards on 
hoi'seback to gather the Prince’s 
.friends and warn them of his coming. 
We travelled through the night. Es- 
mond discoursing to his mistress of 
tlie events of the last twenty-four 
hours ; of Castlewood’s ride and his ; 
of the Prinee’s generous behavior and 
their reconciliation. The night seemed 
short enough ; and the starlit hours 
passed away serenely in that fond 
company. 

So we came along the road; the 
Bishop’s coaeh heading ours ; and 
with some delays in procuring horses, 
we got to Hammersmith about four 
o’clock on Sunday morning, the first 
of August, and half an hour after, it 
being then bright day, we rode by my 
Lady Warwick’s house, and so down 
the street of Kensington. 

Early as the morning was, there 
was a bustle in the street, and many 
people moving to and fro. Bound 
the gate leading to the Palace, where 
the guard is, there was especially a 
great crowd. And the coaeh ahead 
of us stopped, and the Bishop’s man 
got down to know what the concourse 
meant? 

There presently came from out of 
the gate — Horse Guards with their 
trumpets, and a company of heralds 
with their tabards. The trumpets 
blew, and the heralds-at-arms came 
forward and proclaimed George, by 
the Grace of God, of Great Britain, 
France, and Ireland, King, Defender 
of the Faith. And the people shouted 
God save the King ! 

Among the crowd shouting and 
waving their hats, I caught sight of 
one sad face, which I had known all 
my life, and seen under many dis- 
guises. It was no other than poor 
Mr. Holt’s, who had slipped over to 
England to witness the triumph of 


the good cause ; and now beheld its 
enemies victorious, amidst the accla- 
mations of tiie English people. The 
poor fellow had forgot to huzza or to 
take his hat off, until his neighbors 
in the crowd remarked his want of loy- 
alty, and cursed him for a Jesuit in 
disguise, when he ruefully uncovered 
and began to cheer. Sure he was the 
most unlucky of men : he never 
played a game but he lost it ; or en. 
gaged in a conspiracy but ’t was cer- 
tain to end in defeat. I saw him in 
Flanders after this, whence he went to 
Borne to the head-quarters of his Or- 
der ; and actually reappeared among 
us in America, very old, and busy, 
and hopeful. I am not sure that he 
did not assume the hatchet and 
moccasons there ; and, attired in a 
blanket and war-paint, skulk about a 
missionary amongst the Indians. He 
lies buried in our neighboring prov- 
ince of Maryland now, with a cross 
over him, and a mound of earth above 
him ; under which that unquiet spirit 
is forever at peace. 

With the sound of King George’s 
trumpets, all the vain hopes of the 
weak and foolish young Pretend- 
er were blown away ; and with that 
music, too, I may say, the drama of 
my own life was ended. That hap- 
piness, which bath subsequently 
crowned it, cannot be written in 
words ; ’t is of its nature sacred and 
secret, and not to be spoken of, though 
the heart be ever so full of thankful- 
ness, save to Heaven and the One 
Ear alone, — to one fond being, the 
truest and tendercst and purest wife 
ever man was blessed with. As I 
think of the immense happiness 
which Avas in store for me, and of the 
depth and intensity of that love Avhich, 
for so many years, hath blessed me, I 
own to a transport of wonder and 
gratitude for such a boon, — nay, am 
thankful to have been endoAved Avith a 
heart capable of feeling and knowing 
the immense beauty and value of 
the gift Avhich God hath bestOAved 
upon me. Sure, love vmci't omnia; 


THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 


287 


is immeasurably above all ambition, 
more precious than wealth, more noble 
than name. He knows not life who 
knows not that : he hath not felt the 
highest faculty of the soul who hatli 
not enjoyed it. In the name of my 
wife I write the completion of hope, 
and the summit of happiness. To 
liave such a love is tlic one blessing, 
in comparison of which all earthly 
joy is of no value ; and to think of 
iur is to praise God. 

It was at Bruxelles, whither we re- 
treated after the failure of our plot, — 
our Whig friends advising us to keep 
out of the way, — that the great joy 
of my life was bestowed upon me, and 
that my dear mistress became my wife. 
We had been so accustomed to an ex- 
treme intimacy and confidence, and 
had lived so long and tenderly togeth- 
er, that we niiglit have gone on to the 
end without thinking of a closer tic ; 
but circumstances brought about that 
event which so prodigiously multiplied 
my happiness and hers (for which I 
liurnbly thank Heaven), although a 
calamity befell us, which, I blush to 
think, hath occurred more than once 
in our house. I know not what infat- 
uation of ambition urged the beauti- 
tiful and wayward woman, whose 
name hath occupied so many of these 
pages, and who was- served by me 
with ten years of such constant fidel- 
ity and passion ; but ever after that 
day at Castlewood, when we rescued 
lier, she persisted in holding all her 
family as her enemies, and left us, and 
escaped to France, to what a fate I 
disdain to tell. Nor was her son’s 
house a home for my dear mistress ; 
my poor Frank was weak, as perhaps 
all our race hath been, and led by wo- 
men. Those around him were impe- 
rious, and in a terror of his mother’s 
influence over him, lest he should re- 
cant, and deny the creed which he had 
adopted by their persuasion. The 
difference of their religion separated 
the son and the mother : my dearest 
mistress felt that she was severed from 
her children and alone in the world, — | 
alone but for one constant servant on j 


whose fidelity, praised be Heaven, she 
could count. ’T was after a scen^ of 
ignoble quarrel on the part of Frank’s 
wife and mother (for the poor lad had 
been made to marry the whole of that 
German family with Avhom he had 
connected himself), that I found my 
mistress one day in tears, and then 
besought her to confide herself to the 
care and devotion of one who, by 
God’s help, would never forsake her. 
And then the tender matron, as beau- 
tiful in her autumn, and as pure as 
virgins in their spring, with blushes 
of love and “ eyes of meek surrender,” 
yielded to my respectful importunity, 
and consented to share my home. Let 
the last words I write thank her, and 
bless her who hath blessed it. 

By the kindness of Mr. Addison, 
all danger of prosecution, and every 
obstacle against our return toEngland, 
was removed ; and my son Frank’s 
gallantry in Scotland made his peace 
with the King’s government. But 
we two cared no longer to live in Eng- 
land : and Frank formally and joy- 
fully yielded over to us the possession 
of that estate which we now occupy', 
far away from Europe and its troubles, 
on the beautiful banks of the Potomac, 
where we have built a new Castle- 
wood, and think with grateful hearts 
of our old home. In our Transatlantic 
country we have a season, the calmest 
and most delightful of the year, which 
we call the Indian summer: I often say 
the autumn of our life resembles that 
happy and serene weather, and am 
thankful for its rest and its sweet sun- 
shine. Heaven hath blessed us with 
a child, which each parent loves for 
her resemblance to the other. Our 
diamonds are turned into ploughs and 
axes for our plantations ; and into ne- 
groes, the happiest and merriest, I 
think, in all this country : and the 
only jewel by Avhich my wife sets any 
store, and from which she hath never 
parted, is that gold button she took 
from niy^ arm on the day Avhen she vis- 
ited me in prison, and which she wore 
ever after, as she told me, on the ten- 
derest heart in the world. 


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THE WIDOWER. 


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1 


LOYEL THE WIDOWER 


CHAPTER I- 

THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET. 

W HO shall be the hero of this 
tale? Not I who write it. 
I am but the Chorus of the Play. I 
make remarks on the conduct of the 
characters: I narrate their simple 
story. There is love and marriage in 
it : there is grief and disappointment : 
the scene is in the parlor, and the region 
beneath the parlor. No : it may be the 
parlor and kitchen, in this instance, 
are on the same level. There is no 
high life, unless, to be sure, you call 
a baronet’s widow a lady in high life; 
and some ladies may be, while some 
certainly are not. I don’t think 
there ’s a villain in the whole perform- 
ance. There is an abominable self- 
ish old woman, certainly; an old 
highway robber; an old sponger on 
other people’s kindness ; an old 
haunter of Bath and Cheltenham 
boarding-houses (about which how 
can I know anything, never having 
been in a boarding-house at Bath or 
Cheltenham in my life?); an old 
swindler of tradesmen, tyrant of ser- 
vants, bully of the poor, — who, to be 
sure, might do duty for a villain, but 
she considers herself as virtuous a 
woman as ever was born. The 
heroine is not faultless (ah! that will 
be a great relief to some folks, lor 
many writers’ good women are, you 
know, so very insipid). The principal 
personage you may very likely think 
to be no better than a muff. But is 
many a respectable man of our ac- 
quaintance much better? and do 


muffs know that they are what they 
are, or, knowing it, are they unhap- 
py ? Do girls decline to marry one if 
he is rich? Do we refuse to dine 
with one ? I listened to one at 
Church last Sunday, with all the 
women crying and sobbing; and O 
dear me I how finely he preached! 
Don’t we give him great credit for 
wisdom and eloquence in the House 
of Commons? Don’t we give him 
important commands in the army ? 
Can you, or can you not, point out 
one who has been made a peer? 
Doesn’t your wife call one in the 
moment any of the children are ill ? 
Don’t we read his dear poems, or 
even novels ? Yes ; perhaps even this 
one is read and written by — Well? 
Quid rides f Do you mean that I am 
painting a portrait which hangs before 
me every morning in the looking-glass 
when I am shaving? Apres? Do 
you suppose that I suppose that I 
have not infirmities like my neigh- 
bors ? Am I weak ? It is notorious 
to all my friends there is a certain 
dish I can’t resist ; no, not if I have 
already eaten twice too much dinner. 
So, dear sir, or madam, have you 
your weakness — your irresistible dish 
of temptation (or if you don’t know 
it, your friends do) ? No, dear friend, 
the chances are that you and I are 
not people of the highest intellect, of 
the largest fortune, of the most an- 
cient family, of the most consummate 
virtue, of the most faultless beauty 
in face and figure. We are no 
heroes nor angels ; neither are we 
fiends from abodes unmentionable. 


292 


LOVEL THE WIDOWEE. 


black assassins, treacherous lagos, 
familiar with stabbing and poison, — 
murder our amusement, daggers our 
playthings, arsenic our daily bread, 
lies our conversation, and forgery our 
common handwriting. No, we are 
not monsters of crime, or angels 
walking the earth, — at least I know 
one of us who is n’t, as can be shown 
any day at home if the knife won’t 
cut or the mutton comes up raw. 
But we are not altogether brutal and 
unkind, and a few folks like us. Our 
poetry is not as good as Alfred Ten- 
nyson’s, but we can turn a couplet 
for Miss E'anny’s album : our jokes 
are not always first-rate, but Mary 
and her mother smile very kindly 
when papa tells his story or makes 
his pun. We have many weaknesses, 
but we are not ruffians of crime. No 
more was my friend Lovel. On the 
contrary, he was as harmless and 
kindly a felloAV as ever lived when I 
first knew him. At present, with his 
changed position, he is, perhaps, 
rather fine (and certainly I am not 
asked to his best dinner-parties, as I 
used to be, where you hardly see a 
commoner — but stay ! I am advan- 
cing matters). At the time when this 
story begins, I say, Lovel had his 
faults, — which of us has notl He 
had buried his wife, having notori- 
ously been henpecked by her. How 
many men and brethren are like 
him ! He had a good fortune — I 
wish I had as much — though I dare 
say many people are ten times as 
rich. He was a good-looking fellow 
enough ; though that depends, ladies, 
upon whether you like a fair man or 
a dark one. He had a country-house, 
but it was only at Putney, In fact, 
he was in business in the city, and 
being a hospitable man, and having 
three or four spare bedrooms, some of 
his friends were always welcome at 
Shrublands, especially after Mrs. Lev- 
el’s death, who liked me pretty well at 
the period of her early marriage with 
my friend, but got to dislike me at last 
and to show me the cold shoulder. 
That is a joint I never could like 


(though I have known fellows wha 
persist in dining off it year after year, 
who cling hold of it, and refuse to be 
separated from it). I say, when 
Lovel’s wife began to show me that she 
was tired of my company, I made my- 
self scarce : used to pretend to be en- 
gaged when Pred faintly asked me to 
Shrublands ; to accept his meek 
apologies, proposals to dine en garcon 
at Greenwich, the club, and so forth ; 
and never visit upon him my wrath 
at his wife’s indifference, — for, after 
all, he had been my friend at many a 
pinch : he never stinted at Hart’s or 
Lovegrove’s, and always made a 
point of having the wine I liked, never 
mind what the price was. As for his 
wife, there was, assuredly, no love 
lost between us, — I thought her a 
lean, scraggy, lackadaisical, egotisti- 
cal, consequential, insipid creature: 
and as for his mother-in-law, who 
stayed at Fred’s as long and as often 
as her daughter would endure her, 
has any one who ever knew that noto- 
rious old Lady Baker at Bath, at 
Cheltenham, at Brighton, — wher- 
ever trumps and frumps were found, 
together ; wherever scandal was cac- 
kled, wherever fly-blown reputations 
were assembled, and dowagers with 
damaged titles trod over each other 
for the pas, — who, I say, ever had a 
good word for that old woman % 
What party was not bored where she 
appeared 1 What tradesman was not 
done with whom she dealt ? I wish 
with all my heart I was about to 
narrate a story with a good mother- 
in-law for a character ; but then you 
know, my dear madam, all good 
women in novels are insipid. This 
woman certainly was not. She was 
not only not insipid, but exceedingly 
bad-tasted. She had a foul, loud 
tongue, a stupid head, a bad temper, 
an immense pride and arrogance, an 
extravagant son, and very little 
money. Can I say much more of a 
woman than this ? Aha ! my good 
Lady Baker ! I was a maiwais snjet, 
was I? — I was leading Fred into 
smoking, drinking, and low bacheloi: 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


293 


habits, was I ? I, his old friend, who 
have borrowed money from him any 
time these twenty years, was not tit 
company for you and your precious 
dauj^hter'? Indeed! I paid the 
money I borrowed from him like a 
man ; but did you ever pay him, I 
should like to know? Wlien Mrs. 
Lovel Avas in the tirst column of The 
Times, then Fred and I used to go off 
to Greenwich and Blackwall, as I 
said ; then his kind old heart was al- 
lowed to feel for his friend ; then we 
could have the other bottle of claret 
Avithout the appearance of Bedford 
and the coffee, Avhich in Mrs. L.’s 
time used to be sent in to us before 
Ave could ring for a second bottle, al- 
though she and Lady Baker had had 
three glasses each out of the first. 
Three full glasses each, I gi\-e you 
my Avord ! No, madam, it Avas your 
turn to bully me once, — now it is 
mine, and I use it. No, you old 
Catamaran, though you pretend you 
never read novels, some of your con- 
founded good-natured friends Avill let 
you knoAV of this one. Here you are, 
do you hear? Here you shall be 
shoAvn up. And so I intend to show 
up other Avomen and other men Avho 
haA-^e offended me. Is one to be sub- 
ject to slights and scorn, and not 
have revenge? Kindnesses are eas- 
ily forgotten ; but injuries ! — what 
Avorthy man does not keep those in 
mind ? 

Before entering upon the present 
narrative, may I take leaA'e to inform 
a candid public, that though it is all 
true, there is not a word of truth in 
it; that though Lovel is alive and 
prosperous, and you very likely have 
met him, yet I defy you to point him 
out ; that his Avife (for he is Lovel 
the WidoAver no more) is not the 
lady you imagine her to be, when 
you say (as you Avill persist in doing), 
“ O, that character is intended for 
Mrs. Thingamy, or Avas notoriously 
draAvn from Lady So-and-so.” No. 
You are utterly mistaken. Why, 
CA’en the adv’ertising puffers have al- 
most given up that stale stratagem 


of announcing “ Revelations from 
High Life. — The beau monde Avill 
be startled at recognizing the portraits 
of some of its brilliant leaders in Miss 
Wiggins’s forthcoming Roman de 
Societe.” Or, “ We suspect a certain 
ducal house Avill be puzzled to guess 
hoAv the pitiless author of May Fair 
Mysteries has become acquainted Avith 
(and exposed Avith a fearless hand) 
certain family secrets Avhich Avere 
thought only to be known to a feAv of 
the very highest members of the aris- 
tocracy.” No, I say ; these silly baits 
to catch an unsuspecting public shall 
not be our arts. If you choose to 
occupy yourself Avith trying to ascer- 
tain if a certain cap fits one amongst 
ever so many thousand heads, you 
may possibly pop it on the right one : 
but the cap-maker Avill perish before 
he tells you ; unless, of course, he has 
some private pique to avenge, or 
malice to Avreak, upon some individ- 
ual Avho can’t by any possibility hit 
again ; then, indeed, he Avill come boldly 
forward and seize upon his Auctim (a 
bishop, say, or a Avoman AA’ithout 
coarse, quarrelsome male relatives, 
Avill be best), and clap on him, or 
her, such a cap, Avith such ears, that 
all the AAmrld shall laugh at the poor 
wretch, shuddering, and blushing 
beet-root red, and Avhimpering deserved 
tears of rage and vexation at being 
made the common butt of society. 
Besides, I dine at Lov'el’s still ; his 
company and cuisine are among the 
best in London. If they suspected I 
Avas taking them off, he and his Avife 
would leave off inviting me. Would 
any man of a generous disposition 
lose such a valued friend for a joke, 
or be so foolish as to shoAV him up in 
a story ? All persons Avith a decent 
knowledge of the Avorld Avill at once 
banish the thought, as not merely 
base but absurd. I am invited to his 
house one day next Aveek : vons con- 
cevez I can’t mention the A'ery day, 
for then he Avould find me out, — and 
of course there Avould be no more 
cards for his old friend. He Avould 
not like appearing, as it must be own- 


294 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


C(1 he does in this memoir, as a man 
of not very strong mind. He believes 
himself to be a most determined, res- 
olute person. He is quick in speech, 
wears a tierce beard, speaks Avith 
asperity to his servants (who liken 
liini to a — to that before-named sable 
or ermine contrivance in Avhich ladies 
insert their hands in winter), and 
takes his wife to task so smartly that 
•I believe she believes he believes he is 
the master of the house. “ Elizabeth, 
my love, he must mean A, or B, or 
D,” I fancy I hear Lovel say ; and she 

says, “ Yes ; oh ! it is certainly D , 

his very image ! ’' “ D to a T,” says 
Lovel (who is a neat Avit). She 
may knoAv that I mean to depict her 
husband in the aboA^e unpretending 
lines : but she Avill neA^er let me knoAv 
of her knowledge except by a little 
extra courtesy ; except (may I make 
this pleasing exception?) by a feAv 
more invitations : except by a look of 
those unfathomable eyes (gracious 
goodness ! to think she Avore specta- 
cles ever so long, and put a lid over 
them as it were !) into which Avhen 
you gaze sometimes, you may gaze so 
deep, and deep, and deep, that I defy 
you to plumb half-way doAvn into 
their mystery. 

When I Avas a young man, I had 
lodgings in Beak Street, Regent 
Street (I no more haA-^e lived in Beak 
Street than in Belgrave Square : but 
I choose to say so, and no gentleman 
Avill be so rude as to eontradict 
another), — I had lodgings, I say, in 
Beak Street, Regent Street. l\Irs. 
Prior Avas the landlady’s name. She 
had seen better days, — landladies 
frequently haA'e. Her husband — he 
could not be called the landlord, for 
Mrs. P. Avas manager of the place — 
had been, in happier times, captain or 
lieutenant in the militia ; then of 
Hiss, in Norfolk, of no profession ; 
then of NorAvich Castle, a prisoner for 
debt; then of Southampton Build- 
ings, London, laAV-Avriter ; then of the 
Bom-Rctiro Cacadores, in the service 
of H. M. the Queen of Portugal, 
lieutenant and paymaster; then of 


Melina Place, St. George’s Fields, 
etc. — I forbear to give the particu- 
lars of an existence Avhich a legal 
biogra])her has traced step by step, 
and Avhich has more than once been 
the subject of judicial investigation 
by certain commissioners in Lincoln’s 
Inn Fields. Well, Prior, at this time, 
swimming out of a hundred ship- 
Avrecks, had clambered on to a lighter, 
as it Avere, and Avas clerk to a coal- 
merchant by the river-side. “ You 
conceive, sir,” he would say, “my 
employment is only temporary, — 
the fortune of war, the fortune of 
Avar ! ” He smattered Avords in not a 
few foreign languages. His person 
was profusely scented Avith tobacco. 
Bearded individuals, padding the 
muddy hoof in the neighboring Re- 
gent Street, would call sometimes of 
an eA^ening, and ask for “ the Cap- 
tain.” He Avas knoAvn at many neigh- 
boring billiard-tables, and, I imagine, 
not respected. You Avill not see 
enough of Captain Prior to he very 
Aveary of him and his coarse SAvagger, 
to be disgusted by his repeated re- 
quests for small money-loans, or to 
deplore his loss, Avhich you Avill please 
to suppose has happened before the 
curtain of our present drama draAvs 
up. - I think tAvo people in the Avorld 
Avere sorry for him : his Avife, Avho 
still loA'ed the memory of the hand- 
some young man Avho had Avooed and 
Avon her; his daughter Elizabeth, 
Avhom for the last fcAv months of his 
life, and up to his fatal illness, he 
every evening conducted to Avhat he 
called her “ Academy.” You are 
right. Elizabeth is the principal 
character in this story. When I 
kneAv her, a thin, freckled girl of 
fifteen, with a lean frock, and hair of 
a reddish hue, she used to borroAv my 
books, and play on the First Floor’s 
piano, Avhen he Avas from home, — 
Slumley his name AA^as. He Avas edi- 
tor of the SAvell, a neAvspaper then 
published ; author of a great number 
of popular songs, a friend of several 
music-selling houses •, and it Avas by 
Mr. Slumley’s interest that Elizabeth 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


295 


«vas received as a pupil at what the 
family called “ the Academy. 

Captain Prior then used to conduct 
his girl to the Academy, but she often 
liad to conduct him home again. 
Having to wait about the premises for 
two, or three, or five hours sometimes 
whilst Elizabeth was doing her lessons, 
he would naturally desire to shelter 
himself from the cold at some neigh- 
boring house of entertainment. Every 
Friday a prize of a golden medal, 
nay, I believe, sometimes of twenty- 
five silver medals, was awarded to 
Miss Bellenden and other young 
ladies for their good conduct and as- 
siduity at this academy. Miss Bel- 
lenden gave her gold medal to her 
mother, only keeping five shillings 
for herself, with which the poor child 
bought gloves, shoes, and her humble 
articles of millinery. 

Once or twice the Captain succeed- 
ed in intercepting that piece of gold, 
and I dare say treated some of his 
whiskered friends, — the clinking 
trampers of the Quadrant pavement. 
He was a free-handed fellow, when he 
had anybody’s money in his pocket. 
It was owing to differences regarding 
the settlement of accounts that he 
quarreled with the coal-merchant, his 
very last employer. Bessy, after 
yielding once or twice to his importu- 
nity, and trying to believe his solemn 
promises of repayment, had strength 
of mind to refuse her father the pound 
which he would have taken. Her five 
shillings, — her poor little slender 

f )Ocket-money, the representative of 
ler charities and kindnesses to the 
little brothers and sisters, of her little 
toilet ornaments, nay, necessities ; of 
those well-mended gloves, of those oft- 
darned stockings, of those poor boots 
which had to walk many a weary mile 
after midnight ; of those little knick- 
knacks, intheshape of broochor brace- 
let, with which the poor child adorned 
her homely robe or sleeve, — her poor 
five shillings, out of which Mary some- 
times found a pair of shoes, or Tom- 
my a flannel jacket, and little Bill a 
coach and horse, — this wretched sum, 


this mite which Bessy administered 
among so many poor, — I very much 
fear her father sometimes confiscated. 
I charged the child with the fact, and 
she could not deny me. I vowed a 
tremendous vow, that if ever I heard 
of her giving Prior money again, I 
would quit the lodgings, and never 
give those children lollipop, nor peg- 
top, nor sixpence; nor the pungent 
marmalade, nor the biting ginger- 
bread-nut, nor the theatre-characters, 
nor the paint-box to illuminate the 
same ; nor the discarded clothes which 
became smaller clothes upon the per- 
sons of little Tommy and little Bill, 
for whom Mrs. Prior, and Bessy, and 
the little maid, cut, clipped, altered, 
ironed, darned, mangled, with the 
greatest ingenuity. I say, consider- 
ing what had passed between me and 
the Priors, — considering those mon- 
ey transactions, and those clothes, and 
my kindness to the children, — it was 
rather hard that my jam-pots were 
poached, and my brandy - bottles 
leaked. And then to frighten her 
brother with the story of the inexora- 
ble creditor — O Mrs. Prior! — O 
fie, Mrs. P. ! 

So Bessy went to her school in a 
shabby shawl, a faded bonnet, and a 
poor little lean dress flounced with the 
mud and dust of all weathers, where- 
as there were some other young ladies, 
fellow-pupils of hers, who laid out 
their gold medals to much greater 
advantage. Miss Delamere, with 
her eighteen shillings a week (calling 
them “ silver medols ” was only my 
wit, you see), had twenty new bon- 
nets, silk and satin dresses for all 
seasons, feathers in abundance, swan’s- 
down muffs and tippets, lovely pock- 
et-handkerchiefs and trinkets, and 
many and many a half-crown mould of 
jelly, bottle of sherry, blanket, or 
w'hat not, for a poor fellow-pupil in 
distress ; and as for Miss Montanville, 
who had exactly the same sal — 
Avell, Avho had a scholarship of ex- 
actly the same value, viz. about fifty 
pounds yearly, — she kept an elegant 
little cottage in the Regent’s Park, a 


296 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


brougham with a horse all over brass 
harness, and a groom -with a pro- 
digious gold-lace hat-band, who was 
treated with frightful contumely at 
the neighboring cab-stand ; an aunt 
or a mother, I don’t know which 
(I hope it was only an aunt), always 
comfortabl}' dressed, and who looked 
after Montanville : and she herself 
had bracelets, brooches, and velvet 
•pelisses of the very richest description. 
But then Miss Montanville w'as a 
good economist. She was never 
known to help a poor friend in dis- 
tress, or give a fainting brother and 
sister a crust or a glass of wine. She 
allowed ten shillings a week to her 
father, whose name was Boskinson, 
said to be a clerk to a chapel in Pad- 
dington ; but she would never see 
him, — no, not when he was in hos- 
pital, where he was so ill ; and though 
she certainly lent Miss Wilder thir- 
teen pounds, she had Wilder ar- 
rested upon her promissory note 
for twenty-four, and sold up every 
stick of Wilder’s furniture, so that 
the whole Academy cried shame ! 
Well, an accident occurred to Miss 
Montanville, for which those may be 
sorry who choose. On the evening 
of the 26 th of December, Eighteen 
hundred and something, when the 
conductors of the Academy were 
giving their grand annual Christmas 
Pant — I should say examination 
of the Academy pupils before their 
numerous friends — Montanville, 
who happened to be present, not 
in her brougham this time, but in an 
aerial chariot of splendor drawn by 
doves, fell off a rainbow, and through 
the roof of the Revolving Shrine of 
the Amaranthine Queen, thereby 
very nearly damaging Bellenden, who 
was occupying the shrine, attired in 
a light-blue spangled dress, waving a 
wand, and uttering some idiotic verses 
composed for her by the Professor of 
Literature attached to the Academy. 
As for Montanville, let her go shriek- 
ing down that trap-door, break her 
leg, be taken home, and never more 
be character of ours. She never 


could speak. Her voice was as hoarse 
as a fish-woman’s. Can that immense 
stout old box-keeper at the thea- 

tre, who limps up to ladies on the 
first tier, and offers that horrible foot- 
stool, which every body stumbles 
over, and makes a clumsy courtesy, 
and looks so knowing and hard, as 
if she recognized an acquaintance in 
the splendid lady -who enters the box, 
— can that old female be the once 
brilliant Emily Montanville ? I am 
told there are no lady box-keepers in 
the English theatres. This, I sub- 
mit, is a proof of my consummate care 
and artifice in rescuing from a pru- 
rient curiosity the individual person- 
ages from whom the characters of the 
present story are taken. Montan- 
ville is not a box-opener. She may, 
under another name, keep a trinket- 
shop in the Burlington Arcade, for 
what you know : but this secret no 
torture shall induce me to divulge. 
Life has its rises and its downfalls, 
and you have had yours, you hobbling 
old creature. Montanville, indeed ! 
Go thy ways ! Here is a shilling for 
thee. (Thank you, sir.) Take 
away that confounded footstool, and 
never let us see thee more ! 

Now the fairy Amarantha was like 
a certain dear young lady of whom 
we have read in early youth. Up to 
twelve o’clock, attired in sparkling 
raiment, she leads the dance with the 
prince (Gradini, known as Grady in 
his days of banishment at the T. R. 
Dublin). At supper, she takes her 
place by the prince’s royal father (who 
is alive now, and still reigns occasion- 
ally, so that we will not mention his 
revered name). She makes believe 
to drink from the gilded pasteboard, 
and to eat of the mighty pudding. 
She smiles as the good old irascible 
monarch knocks the prime minister 
and the cooks about : she blazes in 
splendor : she beams with a thousand 
jewels, in comparison with which the 
Koh-i-noor is a wretched lustreless lit- 
tle pebble ; she disappears in a char- 
iot, such as a Lord Mayor never rode 
in : — and at midnight, who is that 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


297 


young woman tripping homeward 
through the wet streets in a battered 
bonnet, a cotton shawl, and a lean 
frock fringed with the dreary winter 
flounces ^ 

Our Cinderella is up early in the 
morning : she does no little portion 
of the housework : she dresses her 
sisters and brothers : she prepares 
papa’s breakfast. On days when she 
has not to go to morning lessons at 
her academy she helps with the din- 
ner. Heaven help ns ! She has 
often brought mine when I have dined 
at home, and owns to having made 
that famous mutton-broth when I had 
a cold. Foreigners come to the 
house — professional gentlemen — to 
see Slumley on the first floor ; exiled 
captains of Spain and Portugal, com- 
panions of the warrior her father. It 
is surprising how she has learned their 
accents, and has picked up French 
and Italian, too. And she played the 
piano in Mr. Slumley ’s room some- 
times, as I have said ; but refrained 
from that presently, and from visit- 
ing him altogether. I suspect he was 
not a man of principle. His paper 
used to make direful attacks upon 
individual reputations ; and you 
would find theatre and opera people 
most curiously praised and assaulted 
in the Swell. I recollect meeting him, 
several years after, in the lobby of the 
opera, in a very noisy frame of mind, 
when he heard a certain lady’s car- 
riaire called, and cried out with ex- 
ceeding strong language, which need 
not be accurately reported, “ Look at 
that woman ! Confound her ! 1 

made her, sir ! Got her an engage- 
ment when the family was starving, 
sir ! Did you see her, sir ? She 
would n’t even look at me ! Nor 
indeed was Mr. S. at that moment a 
very agreeable object to behold. 

Then I remembered that there had 
been some quarrel with this man, 
when we lodged in Beak Street 
together. If difficulty there was, it 
was solved amhulando. He quitted 
the lodgings, leaving an excellent 
and costly piano as security for a 
13 =^ 


heavy bill which he owed to Mrs. 
Prior, and the instrument was pres- 
ently fetched away by the music-sell- 
ers, its owners. But regarding Mr. 
S.’s valuable biography, let us speak 
very gently. You see it is “ an insult 
to literature ” to say that there are 
disreputable and dishonest persons 
who write in newspapers. 

Nothing, dear friend, escapes your 
penetration : if a joke is made in your 
company you are down upon it in- 
stanter, and your smile rewards the 
wag who amuses you : so you knew 
at once, Avhilst I was talking of Eliza- 
beth and her academy, that a theatre 
Avas meant, where the poor child 
danced for a guinea, or five-and-twenty 
shillings per week. Nay, she must 
have had not a little skill and merit 
to advance to the quarter of a hun- 
dred ; for she Avas not pretty at this 
time, only a rough, taAvny-haired filly 
of a girl, Avith great eyes. Dolphin, 
the manager, did not think much of 
her, and she passed before him in his 
regi mentof Sea-nymphs, or Bayaderes, 
or Fairies, or Mazurka maidens (with 
their fluttering lances and little scar- 
let slyboots !) scarcely more noticed 
than private Jones standing under 
arms in his company Avhen his Boyal 
Highness the Field-Marshal gallops 
by. There Avere no dramatic tri- 
umphs for Miss Bellenden ; no bou- 
quets Avere flung at her feet ; no 
cunning Mephistopheles — the emis- 
rary of some philandering Faustus 
outside — corrupted her duenna, or 
brought her caskets of diamonds. 
Had there been any such admirer for 
Bellenden, Dolphin would not only not 
have been shocked, but he Avould very 
likely have raised her salary. As it 
Avas, though himself, I fear, a person 
of loose morals, he respected better 
things. “ That Bellenden’s a good 
hhonest gurl,” he said'to the present 
Avriter : “ Avorks hard : gives her 

money to her family : father a shy 
old cove. Very good family, I hear 
they are ! ” and he passes on to some 
other of the innumerable subjects 
which engage a manager. 


298 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


Now, why should a poor lodging- 
house keeper make such a mighty 
secret of having a daughter earning 
an honest guinea by dancing at a 
theatre Why persist in calling the 
theatre an academy ? Why did Mrs. 
Prior speak of it as such, to me who 
knew what the truth was, and to 
whom Elizabeth herself made no mys- 
tery of her calling ? 

• There are actions and events in its 
life over which decent Poverty often 
chooses to cast a veil that is not un- 
becoming wear. We can all, if we 
are minded, peer through this poor 
flimsy screen ; often there is no shame 
behind it, — only empty platters, poor 
scraps, and other threadbare evidence 
of want and cold. And who is called 
on to show his rags to the public, and 
cry out his hunger in the street ? At 
this time (her character has developed 
itself not so amiably since) Mrs. Prior 
was outwardly respectable ; and yet, 
as I have said, my groceries were con- 
sumed with remarkable rapidity ; my 
wine and brandy bottles were all leaky, 
until they were excluded from air un- 
der a patent lock ; my Morell’s rasp- 
berry jam, of which I was passionate- 
ly fond, if exposed on the table for a 
feAv hours, Avas always eaten by the 
cat, or that wonderful little wretch of 
a maid-0 f-all-Avork, so active, yet so 
patient, so kind, so dirty, so obliging. 
Was it the ?n(ad Avho took those gro- 
ceries ? I have seen the Gazza Ladra, 
and knoAv that poor little maids are 
sometimes Avrongfully accused ; and 
besides, in my particular case, I OAvn 
I don’t care who the culprit was. At 
the year’s end, a single man is not 
much poorer for this house-tax Avhich 
he pays. One Sunday evening, being 
confined Avith a cold, and partaking 
of that mutton broth Avhich Elizabeth 
made so Avell, and Avhich she brought 
me, I entreated her to bring from the 
cupboard, of Avhich I gave her the key, 
a certain brandy-l)ottle. She saAv my 
flice Avhen I looked at her : there Avas 
no mistaking its agony. There Avas 
scarce any brandy left : it had all 
leaked aAvay : and it Avas Sunday, and 


no good brandy was to be bought that 
evening. 

Elizabeth, I say, saw my grief. She 
put doAvn the bottle, and she cried : 
she tried to prevent herself from doing 
so at first, but she fairly burst into 
tears. 

My dear, dear child,” says I, 
seizing her hand, “ you don’t suppose 
I fancy you — ” 

“No — no ! ” she says, draAving the 
large hand oA^er her eyes. “ No — 
no ! but I saAv it Avhen you and Mr. 
Warrington last ’ad some. O, do 
have a patting lock ! ” 

“A patent lock, my dear ? ” I re- 
marked. “ Hoav odd that you, who 
hav'e learned to pronounce Italian 
and French Avords so Avell, should 
make such strange slips in English ! 
Your mother speaks well enough.” 

“ She Avas born a lady. She was 
not sent to be a milliner’s girl, as I 
was, and then among those noisy girls 
at that — oh ! tliat place ! ” cries 
Bessy, in a sort of desperation, clench- 
ing her hand. 

Here the bells of St. Beak’s began 
to ring quite cheerily for evening ser- 
Auce. I heard “Elizabeth!” cried 
out from the loAver regions by Mrs. 
Prior’s cracked voice. And the maid- 
en Avent her Avay to Church, Avhich 
she and her mother never missed of a 
Sunday ; and I dare say I slept just 
as Avell Avithoutthe brandy-and-Avatcr. 

Slumley being gone, Mrs. Prior 
came to me rather Avistfully one day, 
and Avanted to knoAv Avdicthcr lAvould 
object to Madame BentAoglio, the 
opera-singer, having the first floor ? 
This was too much, indeed ! Hoav 
Avas my Avork to go on Avith that aa'o- 
man practising all day and roaring 
underneath me But after sending 
away so good a customer, I could not 
refuse to lend the Priors a little more 
money ; and Prior insisted upon treat- 
ing me to a new stamp, and making 
out a neAv and handsome bill for an 
amount nearly tAvice as great as the 
last : Avhich he had no doubt under 
heaven, and Avhich he pledged his 
honor as an officer and a gentleman 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


299 


that he would meet. Let me see : 
tluit was how many years aj^o? — Thir- 
teen, fourteen, twenty ? Never mind. 
My fair Elizabeth, 1 think if you saw 
your poor old father’s signature now, 
you would pay it. I came upon it 
lately in an old box I have n’t opened 
these fifteen years, along with some 
letters written — never mind by 
whom, — and an old glove that I used 
to set an absurd value by ; and that 
emerald-green tabinet waistcoat which 
kind old Mrs. Macmaiius gave me, 
and which I wore at the L — d 
L — t — nt’s ball, Ph-n-x Park, Dub- 
lin, once, when I danced with her 
there ! Lord ! — Lord ! It would no 
more meet round my waist now than 
round Daniel Lambert’s. How we 
outgrow things ! 

But as I never presented this united 
bill of ^£43 odd (the first portion of 
£ 23, etc., was advanced by me in order 
to pay an execution out of the house), 
— as I never expected to have it paid 
any more than I did to be Lord May- 
or of London, — I say it was a little 
hard that Mrs. Prior should write 
off to her brother (she writes a capi- 
tal letter), blessing Providence that 
had given him a noble income, prom- 
ising him the benefit of her prayers, 
in order that he should long live to 
enjoy his large salary, and informing 
him that an obdurate creditor, who 
shall be nameless (meaning me), who 
had Captain Prior in Ms power (as if 
being in possession of that dingy 
scrawl, I should have known what to 
do with it), who held Mr. Prior’s ac- 
ceptance for £ 43 14s. Ad. due on the 
3d July (my bill), would infallibly 
bring their family to ruin, unless a 
part of the money was paid up. When 
I went up to my old college, and 
called on Sargent, at Bonifiice Lodge, 
he treated me as civilly as if I had 
been an undergraduate ; scarcely 
spoke to me in hall, where, of course, 
I dined at the fellows’ table ; and only 
asked me to one of Mrs. Sargent’s 
confounded tea-parties during the 
whole time of my stay. Now it was 
by this man’s entreaty that I went to 


lodge at Prior’s ; he talked to me af- 
ter dinner one day, he hummed, he 
ha’d, he blushed, he prated in his 
pompous way, about an unfortunate 
sister in London, — fatal early mar- 
riage, — husband. Captain Prior, 
Knight of the Swan tvith two necks 
of Portugal, most distinguished of- 
ficer, but imprudent speculator, — ad- 
vantageous lodgings in the centre of 
London, quiet, though near the Clubs, 

— if 1 was ill (I am a confirmed inva- 
lid), Mrs. Prior, his sister, would 
nurse me like a motlier. So, in a 
word, I went to Prior’s: I took the 
rooms : I was attracted by some chil- 
dren : Amelia Jane (that little dirty 
maid before mentioned) dragging a 
go-cart, containing a little dirty pair ; 
another marching by them, carrying 
a fourth wcllnigli as big as himself. 
These little folks, having threaded the 
mighty flood of Regent Street, de- 
bouched into the quiet creek of Beak 
Street, just as I happened to follow 
them. And the door at which the 
small caravan halted — the very door 
I was in search of — was opened by 
Elizabeth, then only just emerging 
from childhood, with tawny hair fall- 
ing into her solemn eyes. 

The aspect of these little people, 
which would have deterred many, 
happened to attract me. I am a lone- 
ly man. I may have been ill treated 
by some one once, but that is neither 
here nor there. If I had had chil- 
dren of my own, I think I should 
have been good to them. I thought 
Prior a dreadful vulgar wretch, and 
his wife a scheming, greedy little avo- 
man. But the children amused me : 
and I took the rooms, liking to hear 
overhead in the morning the patter 
of their little feet. The person I 
mean has several ; — husband, judge in 
the West Indies. Allons ! now you 
know how I came to live at Mrs. 
Prior’s. 

Though I am now a steady, a con- 
firmed old bachelor (I shall call my- 
self Mr. Batchelor, if you please, in 
this story ; and there is some one far 

— far away who knows why I will 


300 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


NEVER take another title), I was a 
gay young fellow enough once. I 
was not above the pleasures of youth : 
in fact, I learned cpiadrilles on pur- 
pose to dance with licr that long va- 
cation when I went to read witli my 
young friend Lord Viscount Poldoody 
at Dub — pshaw ! Be still, thou 
foolish heart ! Perhaps I misspent 
my time as an undergraduate. Per- 
,haps 1 read too many novels, occupied 
myself too much Avith “ elegant lit- 
erature ” (that used to he our phrase), 
and spoke too often at the Union, 
where 1 had a considerable reputation. 
But those tine words got me no col- 
lege prizes : 1 missed my fellowship ; 
was rather in disgrace with my rela- 
tions afterwards, but had a small inde- 
pendence of my own, which I eked 
out by taking a few pupils for little 
goes and the common degree. At 
length, a relation dying, and leaving 
me a further small income, I left the 
University, and came to reside in Lon- 
don. 

Now in my third year at College 
there came to St. Boniface a young 
gentleman, Avho was one of the few 
gentlemen-pensioners of our society. 
His popularity speedily was great. A 
kindly and simple youth, he would 
have been liked, I dare say, even 
though he had been no richer than 
the rest of us ; but this is certain, that 
flattery, worldlincss, mammon - Avor- 
ship, are vices as aa^cII knoAvn to 
younir as to old boys ; and a rich lad 
at school or college has his folloAvers, 
tuft-hunters, led-captains. little courts, 
just as much as any elderly millionary 
of Pall Mall, Avbo gazes round his 
club to sec Avhom he shall take home 
to dinner, Avhile humble trencher-men 
Avait anxiously, thinking, — Ah ! Avill 
he take me this time ? or Avill he .ask 
that abominable sneak and toady 
Henchman again ? Well, Avell ! this 
is an old story about parasites and 
flatterers. My dear good sir, I am 
not for a moment going to say that 
you ever Avere one : and I dare say it 
Avas very l)ase and mean of us to like 
a man chiefly on account of his money. 


“ I knoAv ” — Tom LoaxI used to say 
— “1 knoAV felloAVS come to my rooms 
because I have a large alloAvancc, and 
plenty of my poor old governor’s 
Avine, and give good dinners : I am 
not deceived ; but, at least, it is pleas- 
anter to come to me and have good 
dinners, and good Avinc, than to go 
to Jack Highson’s dreary tea and 
turnout, or to Ned Roper’s abomi- 
nable Oxbridge port.” And so I ad- 
mit at once that Loa'cI’s parties icere 
more agreeable than most men’s in 
the College. Perhaps the goodness 
of the fare, by pleasing the guests, 
made them more pleasant. A dinner 
in hall, .and a pcAVtcr-plate is all very 
Avell, and I can say grace belbre it 
Avith all my heart ; but a dinner Avith 
fish from London, game, and tAvo or 
three nice little entrees is better, — and 
there Avas no better cook in the UniA'cr- 
sity than ours at St. Boniface, .and 
ah me ! there AA'ere appetites then, 
and digestions Avhich rendered the 
good dinner doubly good. 

BetAveen me and young Loa'cI a 
friendship sprang up, Avhich, I trust, 
even the publication of this story Avill 
not diminish. There is a period, im- 
mediately after the taking of his 
bachelor’s degree, Avhen many a uni- 
versity man finds himself embarrassed. 
The tradesmen rather rudely press for 
a settlement of their accounts. Those 
prints AA’e ordered ; those 

shirt-studs and pins Avhich the jcAvel- 
lers Avould persist in thrusting into 
our artless bosoms ; those fine coats 
Ave Avould insist on having for our 
books as Avell as ourselves ; all these 
have to be paid for by the graduate. 
And my fixther, Avho Avas then alive, 
refusing to meet these demands, under 
the — I OAvn — just plea, that ni}" al- 
loAvance had been ample, .and that my 
half-sisters ought not to be mulcted 
of their slender portions in consc- 
(lucncc of my extravagance, I should 
h.ave been subject to very serious in- 
couA^enience — nay, possibly, to per- 
.^onal incarceration, had not Lovel, at 
the risk of rustication, rushed up to 
London to his mother (who then had 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


301 


especial reasons for being very gracious 
with her son), obtained a supply of 
money from her, and brought it to 
me at Mr. Shackeirs horrible hotel, 
where 1 was lodged. He had tears 
in his kind eyes ; he grasped my hand 
a hundred and hundred times as he 
flung the notes into my lap ; and the 
recording tutor (Sargent was only 
tutor then), who was going to bring 
him up before the master for breach 
of discipline, dashed away a drop from 
his own lid, when, with a moving elo- 
quence, I told what had happened, 
and blotted out the transaction with 
some particular old 1811 port, of 
which we freely partook in his private 
rooms that evening. By laborious in- 
stalments, I had the happiness to pay 
Lovel back. I took pupils, as I said ; 
I engaged in literary pursuits : I be- 
came connected with a literary period- 
ical, and I am ashamed to say, I im- 
posed myself upon the public as a 
good classical scholar. I was not 
thought the less learned, when, my rel- 
ative dying, I found myself in pos- 
session of a small independency ; and 
my Translations from the Greek, my 
Poems hy Beta, and my articles in the 
paper of which I was part-proprietor 
for several years, have had their little 
success in their day. 

Indeed at Oxbridge, if I did not 
obtain university honors, at least I 
showed literary tastes. I got the 
prize essay one year at Boniface, and 
plead guilty to having written essays, 
poems, and a tragedy. My college 
friends had a joke at my expense (a 
very small joke serves to amuse those 
port-wine-bibbing fogies, and keeps 
them laughing for ever so long a 
time) —they are welcome, I say, to 
jriak<} merry at my charges — in re- 
spect of a certain bargain which I 
made on coming to London, and in 
which, had I been Moses Primrose 
purchasing green spectacles, I could 
scarcely have been more taken in. 
My Jenkinson was an old college ac- 
quaintance, whom I was idiot enough 
to imagine a respectable man : the 
lellow had a very smooth tongue, and 


sleek, sanctified exterior. He was 
rather a popular preacher, and used 
to cry a good deal in the pulpit. He, 
and a queer wine-merchant and bill- 
discounter, Sherrick by name, had 
somehow got possession of that neat 
little literary paper, the Museum, 
which, perhaps, you remember ; and 
this eligible literary property my 
friend Honeyman, with his wheedling 
tongue, induced me to purchase. I 
bear no malice : the fellow is in India 
now, where I trust he pays his 
butcher and baker. He was in dread- 
ful straits for money when he sold me 
the Museum. He began crying when 
I told him some short time afterwards 
that he was a swindler, and from be- 
hind his pocket-handkerchief sobbed 
a prayer that I should one day think 
better of him ; whereas my remarks 
to the same effect produced an exactly 
contrary impi'ession upon his accom- 
plice, Sherrick, who burst out laugh- 
ing in my face, and said, “ The more 
fool you.” Mr. Sherrick was right. 
He was a fool, without mistake, who 
had any money-dealing with him ; 
and poor Honeyman was right, too; 
I don’t think so badly of him as I did. 
A fellow so hardly pinched for money 
could not resist the temptation of ex- 
tracting it from such a greenhorn. I 
dare say I gave myself airs as editor 
of that confounded Museum, and pro- 
posed to educate the public taste, to 
diffuse morality and sound literature 
throughout the nation, and to pocket 
a liberal salary in return for my ser- 
vices. I dare say I printed my own 
sonnets, my own tragedy, my own 
verses (to a Being who shall be name- 
less, but whose conduct has caused a 
faithful heart to bleed not a little). I 
dai-e say I wrote satirical articles, in 
which I piqued myself upon the fine- 
ness of my wit, and criticisms, got up 
for the nonce, out of encyclopasdias 
and biographical dictionaries ; so that 
I would be actually astounded at my 
own knowledge. I dare say I made 
a gaby of myself to the world : pray, 
my good friend, hast thou never done 
likewise 7 If thou hast never been a 


302 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


fool, be sure thou wilt never be a wise 
man. 

I think it was my brilliant confrere 
on the tirst floor (he had pecuniary 
transactions with Sherrick, and vis- 
ited two or three of her Majesty’s met- 
ropolitan prisons at that gentleman’s 
suit) who tirst showed me how griev- 
ously I had been cheated in the news- 
paper matter. Slumley wrote for a 
•paper printed at our office. The 
same boy often brought proofs to both 
of us, — a little bit of a puny bright- 
eyed chap, who looked scarce twelve 
years old when he was sixteen ; who 
in wit was a man when in stature he 
Avas a child, — like many other chil- 
dren of the poor. 

This little Dick Bedford used to sit 
many hours asleep on my landing- 
place or Slunilcy’s, Avhilst avc were 
preparing our inA'aluable composi- 
tions Avithin our respective apart- 
ments. S. Avas a good-natured repro- 
bate, and gave the child of his meat 
and his drink. I used to like to help 
the little man from my breakfast, and 
see him enjoy the meal. As he sat, 
Avith his bag on his knees, his head 
sunk in sleep, his little high-loAvs 
scarce reaching the floor, Dick made 
a touching little picture. The Avhole 
house Avas fond of him. The tipsy 
Captain nodded him a Avelcome as he 
SAvaggered doAvn stairs, stock and coat 
and Avaistcoat in hand, to his Wor- 
ship’s toilet in the back- kitchen. The 
children and Dick Avere good friends ; 
and Elizabeth patronized him, and 
talked with him noAV and again in 
her grave Avay. You knoAv Clancy, 
the composer 1 knoAv him better, per- 
haps, under his name of Friedrich 
Donner ? Donner used to Avrite mu- 
sic to Slumlcy’s Avords, or vice versa ; 
and Avould come noAv and again to 
Beak Sti-eet, Avhere he and his poet 
Avould try their joint Avork at the 
p>iano. At the sound of that music 
little Dick’s eyes used to kindle. “ O, 
it ’s prime ! ” said the young enthusi- 
ast. And I Avill say that good-na- 
tured miscreant of a Slumley not 
only gave the child pence, but tickets 


for the play, concerts, and so forth. 
Dick had a neat little suit of clothes 
at home ; his mother made him a 
very nice little waistcoat out of my un- 
dergraduate’s goAvn ; and he and she, 
a decent woman, Avhen in their best rai- 
ment, looked respectable enough for 
any theatre-pit in England. 

Amongst other places of public 
amusement Avhich he attended, Mr. 
Dick frequented the academy Avhere 
Miss Bellenden danced, and Avhence 
poor Elizadeth Prior issued forth af- 
ter midnight in her shabby frock. 
And once the Captain, Elizabeth’s 
father and protector, being unable to 
Avalk very aceurately, and noisy and 
incoherent in his spceeh, so that the 
attention of Messieurs of the police 
Avas directed towards him, Dick came 
up, placed Elizabeth and her father 
in a cab, paid the fare Avith his OAvn 
money, and brought the Avhole party 
home in triumph, himself sitting on 
the box of the vehicle. I chanced to 
be coming home myself (from one of 
Mrs. Watcringham’s elegant tea-soi- 
rees, in Dorset Square), and reached 
my door just at the arrival of Dick 
and his caravan. “ Here, cabby ! ” 
says Dick, handing out the fare, and 
looking Avith his brightest eyes. It is 
pleasanter to look at that beaming 
little face than at the Captain yonder 
reeling into his house supported by 
his daughter. Diek cried, Elizabeth 
told me, Avhen, a week afterAvard, she 
Avanted to pay him hack his shilling ; 
and she said he Avas a strange child, 
that he Avas. 

I revert to my friend Loa'cI. I Avas 
coaching Lovel for his degree (Avhich, 
betAveen ourselves, I think he never 
Avould haA^e attained), when he sud- 
denly announced to me, from Wey- 
mouth, Avhere he Avas passing the 
vacation, his intention to quit the 
UniA'ersity and to travel abroad. 
“ Events liaA^e happened, dear friend,” 
he Avrote, “Avhieh Avill make my 
mother’s home miserable to me (I 
little kncAv when I Avent to town about 
your business, Avhat caused her won- 
derful complaisance to me) . She Avould 


LOVEL THE WIDOWEK. 


303 


have broken my heart, Charles (my 
Christian name is Charles), but its 
wounds have found a consoler ! ” 

Now, in this little chapter, there are 
some little mysteries propounded, 
upon which, were I not above any 
such artifice, I might easily leave the 
reader to ponder for a month. 

1. Why did Mrs, Prior, at the lodg- 
ings, persist in calling the theatre at 
which her daughter danced the Acad- 
emy ? 

2. What were the special reasons 
why Mrs. Lovel should be very 
gracious with her son, and give him 
^150 as soon as he asked for the 
money ? 

3. Why was Fred Lovel’s heart 
nearly broken ? and, 4. Who was his 
consoler "? 

1 answer these at once, and without 
the slightest attempt at delay or cir- 
cumlocution. 1. Mrs. Prior, who had 
repeatedly received money from her 
brother, John Erasmus Sargent, D.D., 
Master of St. Boniface College, knew 
perfectly well that if the Master 
(whom she already pestered out of 
his life) heard that she had sent a 
niece of his on the stage, he would 
never give her another shilling. 

2. The reason why Emma, widow 
of the late Adolphus Loeffel, of 
Whitechapel Koad, sugar-baker, was 
so particularly gracious to her son, 
Adolphus Frederic Lovel, Esq., of 
St. Boniface (’ollege, Oxbridge, and 
principal partner in the house of 
Loeffel aforesaid, an infant, was that 
she, Emma, was about to contract a 
second marriage with the Eev. Sam- 
uel Bonnington. 

3. Fred Lovel’s heart was so very 
much broken by this intelligence that 
he gave himself airs of Hamlet, 
dressed in black, wore his long fair 
hair over his eyes, and exhibited a 
hundred signs of grief and despera- 
tion ; until — 

4. Louisa (widow of the late Sir 
Pophani Baker, of Bakerstown, Co. 
Kilkenny, Baronet) induced Mr. Lovel 
to take a trip on the Khine Avith her 
and Cecilia, fourth and only un- 


married daughter of the aforesaid Sir 
Popham Baker, deceased. 

My opinion of Cecilia I have can- 
didly given in a previous page. I 
adhere to that opinion. I shall not 
repeat it. The subject is disagree- 
able to me, as the woman herself Avas 
in life. What Fred found in her to 
admire I cannot tell : lucky for us 
all that tastes, men, Avomen, vary. 
You Avill never see her aliA^e in this 
history. That is her picture, painted 
by the late Mr. Gandish. She stands 
fingering that harp Avith which she 
has often driven me half mad Avith 
her 7 urn’s Halls and her Poor Mari- 
anne. She used to bully Fred so, 
and be so rude to his guests, that in 
order to pacify her, he Avould meanly 
say, “ Do, my love, let us have a little 
music ! ” and thrumpty, thrumpty, 
off Avould go her gloves, and Tara’s 
Halls Avould begin. “ The harp that 
once ” indeed ! the 'accursed catgut 
scarce kneAv any other music, and 
“ once ” Avas a hundred times at lea^st 
in nil/ hearing. Then came the period 
Avhen I Avas treated to the cold joint 
AAdiich 1 have mentioned ; and, not lik- 
ing it, 1 gave up going to Shrublands. 

So, too, did my Lady Baker, but 
not of her own free loill, mind you. 
She did not quit the premises because 
her reception Avas too cold, but because 
the house Avas made a great deal too 
hot for her. I remember Fred coming 
to me in high spirits, and describing 
to me, Avith no little humor, a great 
battle betAveen Cecilia and Lady 
Baker, and her Ladyship’s defeat and 
flight. She fled, however, only as 
far as Putney village, Avhere she 
formed again, as it Avere, and fortified 
herself in a lodging. Next day she 
made a desperate and feeble attack, 
presenting herself at Shrublands 
lodge-gate, and threatening that she 
and sorroAV Avould sit down before it ; 
and that all the Avorld should knoAV 
how a daughter treated her mother. 
But the gate Avas locked, and Barnet, 
the gardener, appeared behind it, say- 
ing, “ Since you are come, my Lady, 
perhaps you Avill pay my missis the 


304 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


four-and-twenty shillings you bor- 
rowed of her.” And he grinned at 
her through the bars until she fled 
before him, cowering. Lovel paid 
the little forgotten account ; the best 
four-and-twenty shillings he had ever 
laid out, he said. 

Eight years passed away; during 
the last four of which I scarce saw my 
old friend, except at clubs and taverns, 
^vhere we met privily, and renewed, 
not old warmth and hilarity, but old 
kindness. One winter he took his 
family abroad ; Cecilia’s health was 
delicate, Lovel told me, and the doc- 
tor had advised that she should spend 
a winter in the south. He did not 
stay with them : he had pressing af- 
fairs at home; he had embarked in 
many businesses besides the paternal 
sugar-bakery ; was concerned in com- 
panies, a director of a joint-stock bank, 
a man in whose fire were many irons. 
A faithful governess was with the 
children ; a faithful man and maid 
were in attendance on the invalid ; 
and Lovel, adoring his wife, as he 
certainly did, yet supported her ab- 
sence with great equanimity. 

In the spring I was not a little 
scared to read among the deaths in 
the newspaper : “At Naples, of scar- 
let fever, on the 25tli ult., Cecilia, 
wife of Frederick Loa'cI, Esq., and 
daughter of the late Sir Popham 
Baker, Bart.” I knew what my 
friend’s grief Avould be. He had 
hurried abroad at the news of her ill- 
ness; he did not reach Naples in 
time to recciA^e the last Avords of his 
poor Cecilia. 

Some months after the catastrophe 
I had a note from Shrublands. Lovel 
AATOte quite in the old affectionate 
tone. He begged his dear old friend 
to go to him, and console him in his 
solitude. Would I come to dinner 
that evening ? 

Of course I Avent off to him straight- 
Avay. I found him in deep sables in 
the draAving-room Avith his children, 
and I confess I Avas not astonished to 
see my Lady Baker once more in that 
room. 


“You seem surprised to see me 
here, Mr. Batchelor ! ” says her Lady- 
ship, Avith that grace and good-breed- 
ing Avhich she generally exhibited ; 
for if she accepted benefits, she took 
care to insult those from whom she 
received them. 

“Indeed, no,” said I, looking at 
Lovel, who piteously hung doAvn his 
head. He had his little Cecy at his 
knee ; he Avas sitting under the por- 
trait of the defunct musician, Avhose 
harp, now muffled in leather, stood 
dimly in the corner of the room. 

“ I am here not at my OAvn Avish, 
but from a feeling of duty toAvarcl 
that — departed — angel ! ” says Lady 
Baker, pointing to the picture. 

“ I am sure Avhen mamma Avas here 
you Avere ahvays quarrelling,” says lit- 
tle Popham, Avith a scoavI. 

“ This is the way those innocent 
children haA^e been taught to regard 
me,” cries grandmamma. 

“ Silence, Pop ! ” says papa, “ and 
don’t be a rude boy.” 

“ Is n’t Pop a rude boy 1 ” echoes 
Cecy. 

“ Silence, Pop,” continues papa. 
“ or you must go up to Miss Prior.” 

— « 

CHAPTER II. 

IN W'HICH MISS PRIOR IS KEPT AT 
THE DOOR. 

Of course Ave all knoAv Avho she 
AA^as, the Miss Prior of Shrublands, 
Avhom papa and grandmamma called 
to the unruly children. Years had 
passed since I had shaken the Beak 
Street dust off my feet. The brass 
plate of “Prior ” AA'as remoA^ed from 
the once fiimiliar door, and scrcAA’cd, 
for Avhat I can tell, on to the late repro- 
bate OAvner’s coffin. A little eruption 
of mushroom-formed brass knobs I 
saAV on the door-post when I passed by 
it last AA'cek, and Cafe des Ambas- 
SADEURS Avas thereon inscribed, Avith 
three fly-bloAvn blue teacups, four egg 
ditto, a couple of clouded coffee-pots 
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lam referred to Cecilia 




LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


305 


and two freckled copies of the Inddpm- 
dance Belfje hanging over the window- 
blind. Were those their Excellencies 
the Ambassadors at the door smoking 
cliei'oots ? Pool and Billiards were 
written on their countenances, their 
hats, their elbows. They may have 
been ambassadors down on their luck, 
as the phrase is. They were in dis- 
grace, no doubt, at the court of her 
imperial majesty Queen Fortune. 
Men as shabby have retrieved their 
disgrace erenow, washed their cloudy 
faces, strapped their dingy waistcoats 
with cordons, and stepped into fine 
carriages from quarters not a whit 
more reputable than the Cafe dcs 
Ambassadeurs. If I lived in the 
Leicester Square neighborhood, and 
kept a cafe', I would always treat for- 
eigners w'ith respect. They may be 
billiard-markers now, or doing a little 
shady police business; but why should 
they not afterward be generals and 
great officers of state ? Suppose that 
gentleman is at present a barber, 
with his tongs and stick of fixature 
for the mustaches, how do you know 
he has not his epaulets and his batoii 
de inarechal in the same pouch ? I 
see engraven on the second-floor bell, 
on my rooms, “Plugwell.” Who 
can Plugwell be, whose feet now warm 
at the fire where I sat many a long 
evening ? And this gentleman with 
the fur collar, the straggling beard, 
the frank and engaging leer, the 
somewhat husky voice, who is calling 
out on the doorstep, “ Step in, and 
'ave it done. Your correct likeness, 
only one shilling,” — is he an am- 
bassador, too '? Ah no : he is only 
the Charge d' Affaires of a photog- 
rapher who lives up stairs : no doubt 
where the little ones used to be. Law 
bless me ! Photography was an in- 
fant, and in the nursery, too, when 
we lived in Beak Street. 

Shall I own that, for old time’s 
sake, I Avent up stairs, and ’ad it 
done” — that correct likeness, price 
one shilling ? Would Some One (I 
have said, I think, that the party in 
question is well married in a distant 


island) like to have the thing, I won- 
der, and be reminded of a man Avhom 
she knew in life’s prime, with brown 
curly locks, as she looked on the effigy 
of this elderly gentleman, with a fore- 
head as bai*e as a billiard-ball ”? As 
I Avent up and doAvn that darkling 
stair, the ghosts of the Prior children 
peeped out from the balusters ; the 
little faces smiled in the tAvilight : it 
may be Avounds (of the heart) throb- 
bed and bled again — O, hoAv freshly 
and keenly ! How infernally I have 
suffered behind that door in that 
room — I mean that one Avhere Plug- 
Avell noAv lives. Confound Plugwell ! 
I wonder Avhat that AAmman thinks of 
me as she sees me shaking my fist at 
the door ? Do you think me mad, 
madam ? I don’t care if you do. 
Do you think Avhen I spoke anon of 
the ghosts of Prior’s children, I mean 
that any of them are dead ? None 
are that I knoAV of. A great hulking 
Bluecoat boy, Avith flu%^ Avhiskcrs, 
spoke to me not long since, in an 
awful bass voice, and announced his 
name as “ Gus Prior.” And “ Hoav ’ s 
Elizabeth'? ” he added, nodding his 
bullet head. Elizabeth, indeed, you 
great vulgar boy ! Elizabeth — and, 
by the Avay, Iioav long we have been 
keeping her Avaiting ! 

You see as I beheld her, a heap of 
memories struck upon me, and I could 
not help chattering ; when of course 
— and you ai’e perfectly right, only 
you might just as Avell have left the 
observation alone : for I kncAv quite 
well what you Avere going to say — 
Avhen I had much better have held my 
tongue. Elizabeth means a history 
to me. She came to me at a crit- 
ical period of my life. Bleeding and 
wounded from the conduct of that oth- 
er individual (by her present name of 
Mrs. O’D — her present O’D-ous 
name — I say, I will never — never 
call her) — desperately Avounded and 
misei'able on my return from a neigh- 
boring capital, I AA-^ent back to my 
lodgings in Beak Street, and there 
there grcAV up a strange intimacy be- 
tween me and my landlady’s young 
T 


306 


LOVEL THE AVIDOWER. 


daughter. I told her my stor}", — in- 
deed, I believe I told anybody avIio 
would listen. She seemed to compas- 
sionate me. She would come wistful- 
ly into my rooms, bringing me my 
gruel and things (I could scarcely 
bear to eat for a while after — after 
that affiiir to which I may have al- 
luded before) — she used to come to 
me, and she used to pity me, and I 
used to tell her all, and to tell her over 
and over again. Days and days have 
I passed tearing my heart out in that 
second-floor room which answers to 
the name of Flugwell now. After- 
noon after afternoon have I spent 
there, and poured out my story of love 
and wrong to Elizabeth, showed her 
that waistcoat I told you of, — that 
glove (her hand was n’t so very 
small either), — her letters, those two 
or three vacuous, meaningless letters, 
with “ My dear sir, mamma hopes 
you will come to tea ” ; or, “ If dear 
Mr. Batchelor should be riding in the 
Phoenix Park near the Loiuj Milestone, 
about 2, my sister and I Avill be in 
the car, and, ” etc. ; or, “ O you kind 
man ! the tickets (she called it tickuts 

— by Heaven ! she did) were too wel- 
come, and the houquays too lovely ” 
(this word, I saw, had been operated 
on with a penknife. I found no faults, 
not even in her spelling — then) ; or 

— never mind what more. But more 
of this puling, of this humbug, of this 
had spelling, of this infernal jilting, 
swindling, heartless hypocrisy (all her 
mother’s doing, I own ; for until he 
got his place, my rival Avas not so well 
received as I Avas) — more of this 
RUBBISH, I say, I shoAved Elizabeth, 
and she pitied me ! 

She used to come to me day after 
day, and I used to talk to her. She 
used not to say much. Perhaps she 
did not listen ; but I did not care for 
that. On — and on — and on I 
Avould go with my prate about my 
passion, my Avrongs, and despair ; 
and untiring as my complaints Avere, 
still more constant was my little 
hearer’s compassion. Mamma’s shrill 
voice Avould come to put an end to our 


conversation, and she Avould rise up 
Avith an “ O, bother ! ” and go aAvay ; 
but the next day the good girl Avas 
sure to come to me again, Avhen we 
Avould huA'e another repetition of our 
tragedy. 

I dare say you are beginning to 
suppose (Avhat, after all, is a very 
common case, and certainly no conju- 
rer is Avanted to make the guess) that 
out of all this crying and sentimental- 
ity, AA'hich a soft-hearted old fool of a 
man poured out to a young girl, — out 
of all this Avhimpering and pity, some- 
thing Avhich is said to be akin to pity 
might arise. But in this, my good 
madam, you are utterly Avrong. Some 
people have the small-pox tAvice, 1 do 
not. In my case, if a heart is broke, 
it’s broke; if a flower is Avithered, 
it’s withered. If I choose to put my 
grief in a ridiculous light, Avhy not ? 
Why do you suppose I am going to 
make a tragedy of such an old, used- 
up, battered, stale, vulgar, trivial, 
every-day subject as a jilt Avho plays 
Avith a man’s passion, and laughs at 
him, and leaves him ? Tragedy in- 
deed ! 0 yes ! poison — black-edged 

note-paper — Waterloo Bridge — ^one 
more unfortunate, and so forth ! No : 
if she goes, let her go ! — si celeres 
qiiatit permas, I puff the Avhat-d’ye-call 
aAvay ! But I ’ll have no tragedy, mind 
you ! 

Well ! it must be confessed that a 
man desperately in loA'e (as I fear I 
must OAvn I then Avas, and a good 
deal cut up by Glorvina’s conduct) is 
a most selfish being : Avhile Avomen 
are so soft and unselfish that they can 
forget or disguise their own sorroAvs 
for a Avhile, Avhile they minister to a 
friend in affliction. I did not see, 
though I talked with her daily, on my 
return from that accursed Dublin, 
that my little Elizabeth was pale and 
distraite, and sad, and silent. She 
AA'ould sit quite dumb Avhile I chat- 
tered, her hands betAveen her knees, 
or draAv one of them ov'er her eyes. 
She Avould say, “ O yes ! Poor 
fellow — poor felloAV ! ” noAv and 
again, as giving a melancholy con- 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


307 


firmation of my dismal stories ; but 
mostly she remained quiet, her head 
drooping toward the ground, a liand 
to her chin, her feet to the fender. 

I was one day harping on the usual 
string. I was telling Elizabeth how, 
after presents had been accepted, after 
letters had passed between us (if 
her scrawl could be called letters, 
if my impassioned song could be so 
construed), after everything but the 
actual word had passed our lips, — I 
Avas telling Elizabeth how, on one 
accursed day, Glorvina’s mother 
greeted me on my arrival in M-rr — n 
Stiuare by saying, “ Dear — dear 
]\Ir. Batchelor, we look on you quite 
as one of the family ! Congratulate 
me — congratulate my child ! Dear 
Tom has got his appointment as Re- 
corder of Tobago; and it is to be a 
match between him and his cousin 
Glory.’' 

“ His cousin What ! ” I shriek, 
with a maniac laugh. 

“ My poor Glorvina ! Sure the 
children have been fond of each other 
ever since they could speak. I knew 
your kind heart Avould be the first to 
rejoice in their happiness ! ” 

And so, say I, — ending the story, 
— I, who thought myself loved, was left 
Avithout a pang of pity : I, Avho could 
mention a hundred reasons Avhy I 
thought Glorvina Avell disposed to me, 
was told she regarded me as an uncle ! 
Were her letters such as nieces Avrite? 
Who ever heard of an uncle Avalking 
round Merrion Square for hours of a 
rainy night, and looking up to a bed- 
room winilow, beeause his 7uece, for- 
sooth, AVas behind it ? I had set my 
whole heart on the cast, and this Avas 
the return I got for it. For months 
she cajoles me, — her eyes folloAV me, 
her cursed smiles Avelcorne and fasci- 
nate me, and at a moment, at the 
beck of another, — she laughs at me 
and leaves me ! 

At this my little pale Elizabeth, 
still hanging doAvn, cries, “O the 
villain ! the villain ! ” and sobs so 
that you might have thought her 
little heart would break. 


“ Nay,” said I, “ my dear, Mr. O’- 
Dowd is no villain. His uncle. Sir 
Hector, Avas as gallant an old officer 
as any in the service. His aunt was 
a Molloy, of Molloy’s Town, and 
they are of excellent fiimily, though, 
I belicA^e, of embarrassed circumstan- 
ces ; and young Tom — ” 

“ Toni ? ” cries Elizabeth, Avith a 
pale, bcAvildered look. “ Ills name 
was n't Tom, dear Mr. Batchelor ; 
his name was Woo-woo-ilUam ! ” and 
the tears begin again. 

Ah, my child ! my child ! my poor 
young creature ! and you, too, have 
felt the infernal stroke. You, too, 
have passed the tossing nights of pain, 

— have heard the dreary hours toll, 

— haA'e looked at the cheerless sun- 
rise with your blank, sleepless eyes, 

— have Avoke out of dreams, mayhap, 
in Avhich the beloved Avas smiling on 
you, Avhispering love- words, — oh ! 
how SAveet and fondly remembered ! 
What ! your heart has been robbed too, 
and your treasury is rifled and empty ! 

— poor girl ! And I looked in that 
sad face, and saAV no grief there ! 
You could do your little sweet en- 
deavor to soothe my w'ounded heart, 
and I never saAV yours was bleeding ! 
Did you suffer more than I did, my 
poor little maid ? I hope not. Are 
you so young, and is all the flower of 
life blighted for you? the cup Avith- 
out saA'or, the sun blotted, or al- 
most invisible over your head ? The 
truth came on me all at once : I 
felt ashamed that my OAvn selfish 
grief should have made me blind to 
hers. 

“ What ! ” said I, “ my poor child ! 
Was it . . . ? ” and I pointed Avith 
my finger downward. 

She nodded her poor head. 

I kneAV it Avas the lodger Avho had 
taken the first floor shortly after Slum- 
ley’s departure. He Avas an officer in 
the Bombay Army. He had had the 
lodgings for three months. He had 
sailed for India shortly before I re- 
turned home from Dublin. 

Elizabeth is Avaiting all this time, 

— shall she conie in ? No, not yet. 


308 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


I have still a little more to say about 
the Priors. 

You understand that she was no 
longer Miss Prior of Beak Street, and 
that mansion, even atthe timeof which 
I write, had been long handed over 
to other tenants. The captain dead, 
his widow, Avith many tears, pressed 
me to remain Avith her ; and I did, 
never having been able to resist that 
kind of appeal. Her statements re- 
garding her atFairs Avere not strictly 
correct — Are not women sometimes 
incorrect about money matters ? — 
A landlord (not unjustly indignant) 
quickly handed over the mansion in 
Beak Street to other tenants. The 
Queen’s taxes SAvooped doAvn on poor 
Mrs. Prior’s scanty furniture, — on 
hers ? — on mine likewise : on my 
neatly bound college-books, embla- 
zoned Avith the effigy of Bonifacius, 
our patron, and of Bishop Budgeon, 
our founder ; on my elegant Raphael 
Morghen prints, purchased in under- 
graduate days ; — (ye PoAvers ! what 
did make us boys go tick for fifteen- 
guinea proofs of Raphael, Dying 
Stags, Duke of Wellington Banquets 
and the like f) my harmonium, at 
which SOME ONE has warbled songs 
of my composition — (I mean the 
words, artfully describing my passions, 
my hopes, or my despair) ; on my 
rich set of Bohemian glass, bought on 
the Zcil, Frankfort O. M. ; on my 
picture of my father, the late Cap- 
tain Batchelor (Hopner), R. N., in 
Avhite ducks, and a telescope, pointing 
of course to a tempest, in the midst 
of Avhich Avas a naval engagement ; 
on my poor mother’s miniature, by 
old Adam Buck, in pencil and pink, 
with no waist to speak of at all ; my 
tea and cream pots (bullion), Avith a 
hundred such fond knick-knacks as 
decorate the chamber of a lonely man. 
I found all these household treasuresin 
possession of the myrmidons of the 
laAV, and had to pay the Priors’ taxes 
Avith this hand before I could be redin- 
tegrated in my OAvn property. Mrs. 
Prior could only pay me back with a 
widoAv’s tears and blessings (Prior had 


quitted ere this time a world where he 
had long ceased to be of tise or orna- 
ment). The tears and blessings, I 
say, she offered me freely, and they 
Avere all very Avell. But Avhy go on 
tampering Avith the tea-box, madam ? 
Why put your finger — your finger ? 
— your Avhole paAv — in the jam-pot "? 
And it is a horrible fact that the Avine 
and spirit bottles AA'crc just as leaky 
after Prior’s decease as they had been 
during his disreputable lifetime. One 
afternoon, having a sudden occasion 
to return to my lodgings, I found my 
Avretched landlady in the very act of 
marauding sheriy. She gaA^e a hys- 
terical laugh, and then burst into 
tears. She declared that since her 
poor Prior’s death she hardly kneAv 
what she said or did. She ma}^ have 
been incoherent ; she AA^as ; but she 
certainly spoke truth on this occa- 
sion. 

I am speaking lightly — flippantly, 
if you please — about this old Mrs. 
Prior, Avith her hard, eager smile, her 
Aveazened face, her froAvning look, her 
cruel voice ; and yet, goodness knoAvs, 
I could, if I liked, be serious as a scr- 
monizer. Why, this Avoman had 
once red cheeks, and A\as Avell-looking 
enough, and told feAV lies, and stole 
no sherry, and felt the tender passions 
of the heart, and I dare say kissed the 
Aveak old bencficed clergyman her fa- 
ther very fondly and remorsefully 
that night Avhen she took leave of him 
to skip round to the back garden-gate 
and run aAvay Avith Mr. Prior. Ma- 
ternal instinct she had, for she nursed 
her young as best she could from her 
lean breast, and AA'ent about hungrily, 
robbing and pilfering for them. On 
Sundays she furbished up that thread- 
bare black silk gOAAm and bonnet, 
ironed the collar, and clung desperate- 
ly to church. She had a feeble pen- 
cil-draAving of the Aucarage in Dorset- 
shire, and silhouettes of her father and 
mother, Avhich Avere hung up in the 
lodgings AvhereA^er she AA'cnt. She 
migrated much : whereA^er she Avent she 
fastened on the gOAvn of the clergy- 
man of the parish ; spoke of her dear 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


309 


father the vicar, of her wealthy and 
gifted brother the Master of Boniface, 
with a reticence which implied that 
Dr. Sargent might do more for his 
poor sister and her family, if he 
would. She plumed herself (oh ! 
those poor moulting old plumes ! ) 
upon belonging to the clergy ; had 
read a good deal of good sound old- 
fashioned theology in early life, and 
wrote a noble hand, in Avhich she had 
been used to copy her father’s ser- 
mons. She used to put cases of con- 
science, to present her humble duty 
to the Rev. Mr. Green, and ask expla- 
nation of such and such a passage of 
his admirable sermon, and bring the 
subject round so as to be reminded of 
certain quotations of Hooker, Bev- 
eridge, Jeremy Taylor. I think she 
had an old commonplace book with a 
score of these extracts, and she 
worked them in very amusingly and 
dexterously into her conversation. 
Green would be interested : perhaps 
pretty young Mrs. Green would call, 
secretly rather shocked at the coldness 
of old Dr. Brown, the rector, about 
Mrs. Prior. Between Green and 
Mrs. Prior money transactions would 
ensue : Mrs. Green’s visits would 
cease : Mrs. Prior Avas an expensive 
woman to knoAV. I remember Pye 
of Maudlin, just before he “ Avent 
OA'cr,” Avas perpetually in Mrs. 
Prior’s back-parlor Avith little books, 
ictures, medals, etc., etc. ? — you 
noAV. They called poor Jack a Jes- 
uit at Oxbridge; but one year at 
Rome I met him (Avith a half-croAvn 
shaA'ed out of his head, and a hat as 
big as Don Basilio’s) ; and he said, 
“My dear Batchelor, do you know 
that person at your lodgings 1 I 
think she Avas an artful creature ! 
She borrowed fourteen pounds of me, 
and I forget hoAV much of — seven, I 
think — of Barfoot, of Corpus, just — 
just before Ave Avere receiAcd. And I 
believe she absolutely got another loan 
from Pummel, to be able to get out of 
the hands of us Jesuits. Are you go- 
ing to hear the Cardinal 1 Do — do 
go and hear him, — everybody does : 


it’s the most fashionable thing in 
Rome.” And from this I opine that 
there are slyboots in other commun- 
ions besides that of Romo. 

Now Mamma Prior had not been 
unaAvare of the love passages betAveen 
her daughter and the fugitive Bom- 
bay captain. Like Elizabetl), she 
called Captain Walkingham “ vil- 
lain ” readily enough ; but, if I knoAv 
AA^oman’s nature in the least (and I 
don’t), the old schemer had throAvn 
her daughter only too frequently in 
the officer’s Avay, had done no small 
portion of the flirting herself, had 
alloAvcd poor Bessy to receive pres- 
ents from Captain Walkingham, and 
had been the manager and directress 
of much of the mischief Avhich en- 
sued. You see, in this humble class 
of life, unprincipled mothers wi/l coax 
and Avheedle and cajole gentlemen 
Avhom they suppose to be eligible, in 
order to procure an establishment for' 
their darling children ! What the 
Prioress did Avas done from the best 
motives of course. “ Never — never 
did the monster see Bessy Avithout 
me, or one or tAvo of her brothers 
and sisters, and Jack and dear Ellen 
are as sharp children as any in Eng- 
land ! ” protested the indignant Mrs. 
Prior to me ; “ and if one of my boys 
had been grown np, Walkingham 
never Avould have dared to act as he 
did, — the unprincipled Avretch ! My 
poor husband Avould have punished 
the villain as he deserved ; but Avhat 
could he do in his shattered state of 
health 'I Oh ! you men — you men, 
Mr. Batchelor ! hoAV unprincipled you 
are ! ” 

“ Why, my good Mrs. Prior,” said 
I, “ you let Elizabeth come to my 
room often enough.” 

“To have the conversation of her 
uncle’s friend, of an educated man, 
of a man so much older than her- 
self! Of course, dear sir! Would 
not a mother wish every advantage 
for her child ? and Avhom could I 
trust, if not you, Avho have ever been 
such a friend to me and mine 1 ” 
asks Mrs. Prior, Aviping her dry eyes 


310 


LOVEL THE WIDOWEK. 


with the corner of her handkerchief, 
as she stands by my fire, my monthly 
bills in hand, — written in her neat 
old-fashioned writing, and calculated 
with that prodigal liberality which 
she always exercised in compiling the 
little accounts between us. “ Why, 
bless me ! ” says my cousin, little 
hirs. Skinner, coming to see me once 
when I was unwell, and examining 
one of the just-mentioned documents, 

— “ bless me ! Charles, you consume 
more tea than all my family, though 
we are seven in the parlor, and as 
much sugar and butter — Avell, it 's 
no wonder you are bilious ! 

“ But then, my dear, I like my tea 
so very strong,” says I ; “ and you 
take yours uncommonly mild. I have 
remarked it at your parties.” 

“It ’s a shame that a man should 
be robbed so,” cried Mrs. S. 

“How kind it is of you to cry 
thieves. Flora ! ” I reply. 

“ It ’s my duty, Charles ! ” ex- 
claims my cousin. “And I should 
like to know who that great, tall, 
gawky, red-haired girl in the passage 
is ! ” 

Ah me ! the name of the only wo- 
man who ever had possession of this 
lieart was not Elizabeth, though I 
own I did think at one time that my 
little schemer of a landlady would not 
have objected if I had proposed to 
make Miss Prior Mrs. Batchelor. 
And it is not only the poor and needy 
who have this mania, but the rich 
too. In the very highest circles, as I 
am informed by the best authorities, 
this match-making goes on. Ah, 
woman — woman! ah, wedded wife I 

— ah, fond mother of fair daughters ! 
how strange thy passion is to add to 
thy titles that of mother-in-law ! I 
am told, when you have got the title, 
it is often but a bitterness and a dis- 
appointment. Very likely the son- 
in-law is rude to you, the coarse, un- 
grateful brute 1 and very possibly 
the daughter rebels, the thankless 
serpent ! And yet you will go on 
scheming : and having met only with 
disappointment from Louisa and her 


husband, you wdll try and get one for 
Jemima, and Maria, and down even 
to little Toddles coming out of the 
nursery in her red shoes ! IVlien } ou 
see her with little Tommy, your 
neighbor’s child, fighting over the 
same Koah’s ark, or clambering on 
the same rocking-horse, I make no 
doubt in your fond silly head you are 
thinking, “ Will those little people 
meet some twenty years hence?” 
And you give Tommy a very large 
piece of cake, and have a fine present 
for him on the Christmas-tree, — you 
know you do, though he is but a rude, 
noisy child, and has already beaten 
Toddles, and taken her doll away from 
her, and made her cry. I remember, 
when I myself was suffering from the 
conduct of a young woman in — in a 
capital which is distinguished by a 
viceregal court, — and from hei' heart- 
lessncss, as well as that of her relative, 
whom I once thought would be my 
mother-in-law, — shrieking out to a 
friend who happened to be spouting 
some lines from Tennyson’s Ulysses: 
“ By George ! Warrington, I have no 
doubt that when the young sirens set 
their green caps at the old Greek cap- 
tain and his crew, waving and beck- 
oning him with their white arms and 
glancing smiles, and wheedling him 
with their sweetest pipes, — I make no 
doubt, sir, that the mother sirens were 
behind the rocks (with their dyed 
fronts and cheeks painted, so as to re- 
sist water), and calling out, — ‘ Now, 
Halcyone, my child, that air from the 
Pirata ! Now, Glaukopis, dear, look 
well at that old gentleman at the helm ! 
Bathykolpos, love, there ’s a young 
sailor on the maintop, who will tumble 
right down into your lap if you beckon 
him!” And so on — and so on. 
And I laughed a wild shriek of de- 
spair. For I, too, have been on the 
dangerous island, and come away 
thence, mad, furious, wanting a strait- 
waistcoat. 

And so, when a white-armed siren 
named Glorvina was bedeviling me 
with her all too tempting ogling and 
singing, I did not see at the time, but 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


311 


now I know, that her artful mother 
was egging that artful child on. 

How, when the captain died, bailiffs 
and executions took possession of his 
premises, I have told in a previous 
page, nor do I care to enlarge much 
upon the odious theme. I think the 
bailiffs were on the premises before 
Prior’s exit : but he did not know of 
their presence. If I had to buy them 
out, ’t was no great matter : only I 
say it was hard of Mrs. Prior to rep- 
resent me in the character of Shylock 
to the Master of Boniface. Well — 
well ! I suppose there are other gen- 
tlemen besides Mr. Charles Batchelor 
who have been misrepresented in this 
life. Sargent and I made up matters 
afterward, and Miss Bessy was the 
cause of our coming together again. 
“ Upon my word, my dear Batchelor,” 
says he one Christmas , when I went 
up to the old college, “ I did not 
know how much my — ahem! — 
my family was obliged to you ! My 

— ahem ! — niece. Miss Prior, has in- 
formed me of various acts of — ahem ! 

— generosity which you showed to 
my poor sister, and her still more 
wretched husband. You got my sec- 
ond — ahem ! — nephew — pardon me 
if I forget his Christian name — into 
the Avhat-d’you-call-’em — Bluecoat 
school; you have been, on various oc- 
casions, of considerable pecuniary 
service to my sister’s family, A man 
need not take high university honors 
to have a good — ahem ! — heart ; 
and, upon my word, Batchelor, I and 
my — ahem ! — wife are sincerely 
obliged to you ! ” 

“ I tell you what. Master,” said I, 
“ there is a point upon which you ought 
really to be obliged to me, and in 
which I have been the means of put- 
ting money into your pocket, too.” 

“I confess I fail to comprehend 
you,” says tlie Master, with his grand- 
est air. 

“ I have got you and Mrs. Sargent 
a very good governess for your chil- 
dren, at the very smallest remunera- 
tion,” says I, 

“ Do you know the charges that 


unhappy sister of mine and her 
family have put me to already 1 ” 
says the Master, turning as red as his 
hood. 

“ They have formed the frequent 
subject of your conversation,” 1 re- 
plied. “ You have had Bessy as a 
governess — ” 

“ A nursery governess, — she has 
learned Latin, and a great deal more, 
since she has been in my house ! ” 
cries the Master. 

“ A nursery governess at the wages 
of a housemaid,” I continued, as 
bold as Corinthian brass. 

“Does my niece, does my — ahem! 
— children’s governess complain of 
my treatment in my college ? ” cries 
the Master. 

“ My dear Master,” I asked, “ you 
don’t suppose I would have listened 
to her complaints, or, at any rate, 
have repeated them, until now ? ” 

“ And why now, Batchelor, I should 
like to know 1 ” says the Master, pa- 
cing up and down his study in a fume, 
under the portraits of Holy Bonifa- 
cius. Bishop Budgeon, and all the de- 
funct big- wigs of the college. “ And 
why now, Batchelor, I should like to 
know,” says he. 

“ Because, though after staying 
Avith you for three years, and having 
improved herself greatly, as every 
woman must in your society, my dear 
Master, Miss Prior is worth at least 
fifty guineas a year more than you 
give her, I would not have had her 
speak until she had found a better 
place.” 

“ You mean to say she proposes to 
go away ? ” 

“ A Avealthy friend of mine — who 
Avas a member of our college, by 
the Avay — Avants a nursery govern- 
ess, and I have recommended Miss 
Prior to him, at seventy guineas a 
year.” 

“ And pray Avho ’s the member of 
my college Avho Avill gi\'e my niece 
seventy guineas ? ” asks the Master, 
fiercely. 

“ You remember Lovel, the gentle- 
man-pensioner ? ” 


312 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


The sugar-baking man — the man 
who took you out of ja — 1 ” 

“ One good turn deserves another,” 
says I, hastily. “ I have done as 
much for some of your family, Sar- 
gent ! ” 

The red Master, who had been rust- 
ling up and down his study in his 
gown and bands, stopped in his walk 
as if I had struck him. He looked at 
me. He turned redder than ever. 
He drew his hand over his eyes. 
“ Batchelor,” says he, “ I ask your 
pardon. It was I who forgot myself 
— may Heaven forgive me ! — forgot 
how good you have been to my fam- 
ily, to my — ahem ! — humble family, 
and — and how devoutly thankful 1 
ought to be for the protection which 
they have found in you.” His voice 
quite fell as he spoke. And of course 
any little wrath which I might have 
felt was disarmed before his contri- 
tion. We parted the best friends. 
He not only shook hands with me at 
the study door, but he actually fol- 
lowed me to the hall door, and shook 
hands at his lodge porch, sub Jove, in 
the quadrangle. Huckles, the tutor 
(Highlow Huckles we used to call 
him in our time), and Botts (Trum- 
perian professor), who happened to 
be passing through the court at the 
time, stood aghast as they witnessed 
the phenomenon. 

“ 1 say, Batchelor,” asks Huckles, 
“ have you been made a marquis by 
any chance ? ” 

“ Why a marquis, Huckles 1 ” I 
ask. 

“ Sargent never comes to his lodge 
door with any man under a marquis,” 
says Huckles, in a low whisper. 

“ Or a pretty woman,” says that 
Botts (he ivill have his joke). 
” Batchelor, my elderly Tiresias, are 
you turned into a lovely young lady 
par liasard ? ” 

“ Get along, you absurd Trumpe- 
rian professor ! ” say I. But the 
circumstance was the talk not only in 
Compotation Room that evening over 
our wine, but of the whole college. 
And further, events happened which 


made each man look at his neighbor 
with wonder. For that whole term 
Sargent did not ask our nobleman. 
Lord Sackville (Lord AVigmore’s 
son), to the Lodge. (Lord W.’s fa- 
ther, you know. Duff, Avas baker to 
the college.) For that Avhole term he 
was rude but twice to Berks, the 
junior tutor, and then only in a very 
mild Avay ; and Avhat is more, he gave 
his niece a present of a gOAvn, of his 
blessing, of a kiss, and a high char- 
acter, Avhen she Avent doAvn ; and 
promised to put one of her young 
brothers to school, — Avhich promise, 
I need not say, he faithfully kept, for 
he has good principles, Sargent has. 
He is rude ; he is ill-bred ; he is 
bumptious beyond almost any man I 
CA'er kncAv ; he is spoiled not a little 
by prosperity ; but he is magnani- 
mous : he can OAvn that he has been 
in the Avrong; and, O me! Avhat a 
quantity of Greek he knoAvs ! 

Although my late friend the cap- 
tain ncA-er seemed to do aught but 
spend the family money, his disrepu- 
table presence somehoAV acted for good 
in the household. ” My dear husband 
kept our family together,” Mrs. Prior 
said, shaking her lean head under her 
meagre widoAv’s cap. “HeaA’en 
knoAA's hoAv I shall provide for these 
lambs noAv he is gone.” Indeed, it 
was not until after the death of that 
tipsy shepherd that the wolves of the 
laAv came doAvn upon the lambs, — 
myself included, Avho have passed 
the age of lambhood and mint sauce 
a long time. They came doAvn upon 
our fold in Beak Street, I say, and 
ravaged it. What Avas I to do ? 
Could I leav’e that widow and children 
in their distress ? I Avas not ignorant 
of misfortune, and kncAV hoAv to suc- 
cor the miserable. Nay, I think the 
little excitement attendant upon the 
seizure of my goods, etc., the insolv- 
ent vulgarity of the Ioav persons in 
possession, — AA'ith one of Avhom I 
Avas A'ery near coming to a personal 
encounter, — and other incidents 
Avhich occurred in the bereft house- 
hold, served to rouse me, and dissi- 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


313 


pate some of the languor and misery- 
under which I was suffering, in con- 
sequence of Miss Mulligan’s conduct 
to me. I know I took the late cap- 
tain to his final abode. My good 
friends the printers of the Museum 
took one of his boys into their count- 
ing-house. A blue coat and a pair of 
yellow stockings were procured for 
Augustus ; and seeing the Master’s 
children walking about in Boniface 
gardens with a glum-looking old 
wretch of a nurse, I bethought me of 
proposing to him to take his niece 
Miss Prior, — and. Heaven be good 
to me ! never said one word to her 
uncle about Miss Bellenden and the 
Academy. I dare say I drew a num- 
ber of long bows about her. I man- 
aged al)out the bad grammar pretty 
well, by lamenting that Elizabeth’s 
poor mother had been forced to allow 
the girl to keep company with ill- 
educated people ; and added that she 
could not fail to mend her English 
in the house of one of the most dis- 
tinguished scholars in Europe, and 
one of the best-bred women. I did 
say so, upon my word, looking that 
half - bred stuck - up Mrs. Sargent 
gravely in the face ; and I humbly 
trust, if that bouncer has been re- 
gistered against me, the Recording 
Angel will be pleased to consider 
that the motive was good, though the 
statement was unjustifiable. But I 
don’t think it was the. compliment : I 
think it was the temptation of get- 
ting a governess for next to nothing 
that operated upon Madam Sargent. 
And so Bessy went to her aunt, par- 
took of the bread of dependence, and 
drank of the cup of humiliation, and 
ate the pie of humility, and brought 
up her odious little cousins to the 
best of her small power, and bowed 
the head of hypocrisy before the don 
her uncle, and the pompous little up- 
start her aunt. She the best-bred 
woman in England, indeed ! She, the 
little vain skinflint ! 

Bessy’s mother was not a little loath 
to )»art with the fifty pounds a year 
which the child brought home from 
14 


the Academy ; but her departure 
thence was inevitable. Some quar- 
rel had taken place there, about which 
the girl did not care to talk. Some 
rudeness had been ofl'ered to Miss 
Bellenden, to which Miss Prior was 
determined not to submit : or was it 
that she wanted to go away from tlie 
scenes of her own misciw, and to 
try and forget that Indian captain f 
Come, fellow-sufferer ! Come, child 
of misfortune, come hither ! Here is 
an old bachelor who will weep with 
thee tear for tear ! 

I protest here is Miss Prior coming 
into the room at last. A pale face, a 
tawny head of hair combed back, un- 
der a black cap : a pair of blue spec- 
tacles, as I live ! a tight mourning 
dress, buttoned up to her white throat ; 
her head hung meekly down : such 
is Miss Prior. She takes my hand 
when I offer it. She drops me a de- 
mure little courtesy, and answers my 
many questions with humble mono- 
syllabic replies. She appeals con- 
stantly to Lady Baker for instruction, 
or for confirmation of her statements. 
What! have six years of slavery so 
changed the frank daring young girl 
whom I remember in Beak Street ? 
She is taller and stouter than she was. 
She is awkward and high-shouldered, 
but surely she has a very fine figure. 

“ Will Miss Cecy and Master Pop- 
ham have their teas here or in the 
school-room ? ” asks Bedford, the but- 
ler, of his master. Miss Prior looks 
appealingly to Lady Baker. 

“ In the sch — ” Lady Baker is be- 
ginning. 

“ Here — here ! ” bawl out the chil- 
dren. “ Much better fun down here : 
and you ’ll send us out some fruit 
and things from dinner, papa 1 ” cries 
Cecy. 

“ It’s time to dress for dinner,” 
says her Ladyship. 

“ Has the first bell rung ? ” asks 
Lovel. 

“ Yes, the first bell has rung, and 
grandmamma must go, for it always 
takes her a precious long time to 
dress for dinner ! ” cries Pop. And, 


314 


LOVJa. THE VriDOWER. 


indeed, on looking at Lady Baker, 
the connoisseur might perceive that 
her Ladyship was a highly composite 
person, whose charms required very 
much care and arrangement. Tlicre 
are some cracked old liouscs where 
the painters and plumbers and put- 
tyers are always at work. 

“ Have the goodness to ring the 
bell ! ” she says, in a majestic manner, 
to Miss Prior, though I think Lady 
Baker herself was nearest. 

I sprang toward the bell myself, 
and my hand meets Elizabeth’s there, 
who was obeying her Ladyship’s sum- 
mons, and who retreats, making me 
the demurest courtesy. At the sum- 
mons enter Bedford the butler (he 
was an old friend of mine, too), and 
young Buttons the page under that 
butler. 

Lady Baker points to a heap of 
articles on a table, and says to Bed- 
ford : “ If you please, Bedford, tell 
my man to give those things to Pin- 
horn, my maid, to be taken to my 
room.” 

“ Shall I not take them up, dear 
Lady Baker ? ” says Miss Prior. 

But Bedford, looking at his subor- 
dinate, says : “ Thomas ! tell Bulke- 
ley, her Ladyship’s man, to take her 
Ladyship’s things and give them to 
her Ladyship’s maid.” There was a 
tone of sarcasm, even of parody, in 
Monsieur Bedford’s voice ; but his 
manner was profoundly grave and re- 
spectful. Drawing up her person, 
and making a motion, I don’t know 
whether of politeness or defiance, exit 
Lady Baker, followed by page bear- 
ing bandboxes, shawls, paper parcels, 
parasols — I know not what. Dear 
Pophani stands on his head as grand- 
mamma leaves the room. “ Don’t be 
vulgar!” cries little Cccy (the dear 
child is always acting as a little Men- 
tor to her brother). “ I shall if I like,” 
says Pop ; and he makes faces at her. 

“You know your room. Batch'?” 
asks the master of the house. 

“Mr. Batchelor’s old room, — al- 
ways has the blue room,” says Bed- 
ford, looking very kindly at me. 


“ Give us,” cries Lovel, “ a bottle 
of that Sau — ” 

“ — Terne, Mr. Batchelor used to 
like. Chateau Yquem. All right!” 
says Mr. Bedford. “ How Aviil you 
have the turbot done yqu brought 
doAvn 1 — Dutch sauce ? — Make lob- 
ster into salad '? Mr. Bonnington 
likes lobster salad,” says Bedford. 
Pop is winding up the butler’s baek 
at this time. It is evident Mr. Bed- 
ford is a privileged person in the fam- 
ily. As he had entered it on my 
nomination scA^eral years ago, and 
had been CAer since the faithful valet, 
butler, and major-domo of Lovel, 
Bedford and I Avere ahvays good 
friends Avheii AV’e met. 

“ By the Avay, Bedford, Avhy Avas 
n’t the barouche sent for me to the 
bridge ? ” cries Loa'cI. “ I had to Avalk 
all the AA'ay home, Avith a bat and 
stumps for Pop, Avith the basket of fish, 
and that bandbox Avith my Lady’s — ” 

“ He — he ! ” grins Bedford. 

“ ‘ He — he ! ’ Confound you, Avhy 
do you stand grinning there'? Why 
did n’t I have the earriage, I say ? 
buAvls the master of the bouse. 

“ Yoti knoAv, sir,” says Bedford. 
“ She had the carriage.” And he in- 
dicated the door through Avhich Lady 
Baker had just retreated. 

“ Then Avhy did n’t I haA^e the 
phaeton ? ” asks Bedford’s master. 

“ Your ma and Mr. Bonnington 
had the phaeton.” 

“ And Avhy should n’t they, pray ? 
Mr. Bonnington is lame . I ’m at my 
business all day. I should like to 
knoAV Avhy they should n't have the 
phaeton '? ” says Lovel, appealing to 
me. As Ave had been sitting talk- 
ing together previous to Miss Prior’s 
appearance, Lady Baker had said to 
LoacI, “ Your mother and Mr. Bon- 
nington are coming to dinner of 
course, Frederick ” ; and Lovel had 
said, “ Of course they are,” Avith a 
peevish bluster, Avhereof I noAV began 
to understand the meaning. The 
fact Avas, these tAvo Avomen Avere fight- 
ing for the possession of this child ; 
but who was the Solomon to say 







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Bessys Spectacles 









LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


315 


which should have him ? Not L 
NennL I put my oar in no man’s 
boat. Give me an easy life, my 
dear friends, and row me gently over. 

“ You had better go and dress,” 
says Bedford, sternly, looking at his 
master ; “ the first bell has rung this 
quarter of an hour. Will you have 
some 34 ? ” 

Lovel started up ; he looked at the 
clock. “ You are all ready, Batch, 1 
sec. I hope you are going to stay 
some time, ain’t you 'i ” And he 
disappeared to array himself in his 
sables and starch. I was thus alone 
with Miss Prior, and her young 
charges, wlio resumed straightway 
their infantine gambols and quarrels. 

“ My dear Bessy ! ” I cry, holding 
out both hands, “ 1 am heartily glad 
to — ” 

“ Ne m’appelez que de mon nom pa- 
ternel devant tout ce monde s’il vous 
plait, mon cfier ami, mon hon protec- 
teurl ” she says, hastily, in very good 
French, folding her hands and mak- 
ing a courtesy. 

“ Old, oui, oui! Parlez-vous Fran- 
gais ? ,Vaime, ta aimes, il aime!” 
cries out dear Master Popham. 
“ What are you talking about ? 
Here ’s the phaeton ! ” and the young 
innocent dashes through the open 
window on to the lawn, whither he is 
followed by his sister, and where we 
see the carriage containing Mr. and 
Mrs. Bonniiigton rolling over the 
smooth walk. 

Bessy advances toward me, and 
gives me readily enough now the 
hand she had refused anon. 

“ I never thought you would haA'e 
refused it, Bessy,” said I. 

“ Refuse it to the best friend I ever 
had ! ” she says, pressing my hand. 
“ Ah, dear Mr. Batchelor, what an 
ungrateful wretch I should be if I 
did ! ” 

“ Let me see your eyes. Why do 
you wear spectacles ? You never 
wore them in Beak Street,” I say. 
You see I was very fond of the child. 
She had Avound herself around me in 
a thousand fond ways. Owing to a 1 


I certain Person’s conduct my heart 
may be a ruin, — a I’ersepolis, sir, — 
a perfect Tadinor. But what then ? 
May not a traveller rest under its 
.shuttered columns ? May not an 
Arab maid repose there till the morn- 
ing duAvns and the caravan passes on 'I 
Yes, my lieart is a Palmyra, and 
once a queen inhabited me (O Ze- 
nobia ! Zenobia ! to think thou 
shouldst have been led aAvay cap- 
tive by an O’D.!). Noav I am 
alone, alone in the solitary wilderness. 
Nevertheless, if a stranger comes to 
me I have a spring for his weary feet, 
I Avill give him the shelter of my 
shade. Rest thy cheek awhile, young 
maiden, on my marble, — then go 
thy Avays, and IcaA'e me. 

Tills I thought, or something to 
this ctfect, as in reply to my remark, 
“ Let me see your eyes,” Bessy took 
off her spectacles, and I took them 
up and looked at her. Why did n’t I 
say to her, “My dear, brave Eli/ca- 
beth ! as I look in your face I see 
you have had an aAvful deal of suffer- 
ing. Your eyes arc inscrutably sad. 
We, who are initiated, know the mem- 
bers of our Community of Soitoav. 
We have both been Avrecked in differ- 
ent ships, and been cast on this shore, 
— let us go hand in hand, and find a 
caA'e and a shelter someAvhere togeth- 
er.” I say, Avhy did n’t I say this 
to her ? She Avould have come, I feel 
sure she Avovild. We Avould have been 
semi-attached, asitAA'ere. WeAAmuld 
have locked up that room in either 
heart Avherc the skeleton Avas, and 
said nothing about it, and pulled 
doAvn the party-wall and taken our 
mild tea in the garden. I live in 
Pump Court noAV. It Avould have 
been better than this dingy loneliness 
and a snuffy laundress Avho bullies me. 
But for Bessy? Well — Avell, per- 
haps better for her too. 

I remember these thoughts rushing 
through my mind Avhile I held the 
spectacles. What a numixir of other 
things too ? I remember tAvo canaries 
making a tremendous concert in their 
cage, I remember the voices of the 


816 


LOVEL THE WIDOWEK. 


two cliildren quarrelling on the lawn, 
the sound of the carriage-wheels 
grinding over the gravel ; and then 
of a little old familiar cracked voice 
in my ear, with a “ La, Mr. Batchelor ! 
arc you here 1 And a sly face looks 
lip at me from under an old bonnet. 

“It is mamma,” says Bessy. 

“ And I hn come to tea with Eliza- 
beth and the dear children ; and while 
you are at dinner, dear Mr. Batehelor, 
thankful — thankful for all mercies ! 
And, dear me ! here is Mrs. Bonning- 
ton, I do declare ! Dear madam, how 
well 3'ou look — not twenty, I declare ! 
And dear Mr. Bennington ! O sir ! 
let me — let me, I must press your 
hand. What a sermon last Sunday ! 
All Putney was in tears ! ” 

And the little woman, flinging out 
her lean arms, seizes portly Mr. Bon- 
nington’s fat hand, as he and kind 
Mrs. Bonnington enter at the open 
casement. The little woman seems 
inclined to do the honors of the 
house. “ And won’t you go up stairs, 
and put on your cap ? Dear me, 
what a lovely ribbon ! How blue 
does become Mrs. Bonnington ! I 
always say so to Elizabeth,” she 
cries, peeping into a little packet 
which Mrs. Bonnington bears in her 
hand. After exchanging friendly 
words and greetings with me, that 
lady retires to put the lovely cap on, 
followed by her little jackal of an 
aide-de-camp. The portly clergyman 
surveys his pleased person in the 
spacious mirror. “Your things are 
in your old room, — like to go in, and 
brush up a bit 1 ” whispers Bedford to 
me. I am obliged to go, you see, 
though, for my part, I had thought, 
until Bedford spoke, that the ride on 
the top of the Putney omnibus had 
left me without any need of brushing ; 
having aired my clothes, and given 
my young cheek a fresh and agree- 
able bloom. 

My old room, as Bedford calls it, 
was that snug apartment communi- 
cating by double doors with the draw- 
ing-room, and whence you can walk 
on to the lawn out of the windows. 


“ Here ’s your books, here ’s your 
writing-paper,” says Bedford, leading 
the way into the chamber. “ Docs 
sore eyes good to sec you down here 
again, sir. You may smoke now. 
Clarence Baker smokes when he 
comes. Go and get some of that 
wine you like lor dinner.” And the 
good fellow’s eyes beam kindness 
upon me as he nods his head, and de- 
parts to superintend the duties of his 
table. Of course you understand 
that this Bedford was my young 
printer’s boy of former days. What 
a queer fellow ! I had not only been 
kind to him, but he was grateful. 


CHAPTER III. 

IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY. 

The room to which Bedford con- 
ducted me I hold to be the very pleas- 
antest chamber in all the mansion of 
Shrublands. To lie on that comfort- 
able cool bachelor’s bed there, and 
see the birds hopping about on the 
lawn ; to peep out of the French 
window at early morning, inhale the 
sweet air, mark the dewy bloom on 
the grass, listen to the little warblers 
performing their ehorus, step forth in 
your dressing-gown and slippers, pick 
a strawberry from the bed, or an ap- 
ricot in its season ; blow one, two, 
three, just half a dozen pufls of a 
cigarette, hear the venerable towers of 
Putney toll the hour of six (three hours 
from breakfast, by consequence), and 
pop back into bed again with a favorite 
novel or review, to set you otf (you 
see I am not malicious^, or I could 
easily insert here the name of some 
twaddler against -whom I have a 
grudge-kin) : to pop back into bed 
again, I say, with a hook which sets 
you off into that dear invaluable 
second sleep, by which health, spirits, 
appetite, arc so prodigiously improved : 
— all these I hold to be most cheerful 
and harmless pleasures, and have par- 
taken of them often, at Shrublands 
with a grateful heart. That heart 


LOVEL THE WIDOWEE. 


317 


may have had its griefs, hut is yet 
susceptible of enjoyment and consola- 
tion. The bosom may have been 
lacerated, but is not therefore and 
henceforward a stranger to comfort. 
After a certain affair in Dublin — 
nay, very soon after, three months 
after — I recollect remarking to my- 
self: “Well, thank my stars, I still 
have a relish for 34 claret. Once at 
Shrnblands I heard steps pacing over- 
head at night, and the feeble but con- 
tinued wail of an infant. I wakened 
from my sleep, was sulky, but turned 
and slept again. Biddlecombe the 
barrister I knew was the occupant of 
the upper chamber. He came down 
the next morning looking wretchedly 
yellow about the cheeks, and livid 
round the eyes. His teething infant 
had kept him on the march all night, 
and Mrs. Biddlecombe, I am told, 
scolds him frightfully besides. He 
munched a shred of toast, and was 
off' by the omnibus to chambers. I 
chipped a second egg; I may have 
tried one or two other nice little 
things on the table (Strasbourg pate, 
I know, I never can resist, and am 
convinced it is perfectly wholesome). 
I could see my own sweet face in the 
mirror opposite, and my gills were as 
rosy as any broiled salmon. “ Well, 
well ! ” I thought, as the barrister 
disappeared on the roof of the coach, 
“ he has domus and placens uxor ; but 
is she placens ? Piacetne to walk 
about all night with a roaring baby 1 
Is it pleasing to go to bed after a 
long hard day’s work, and have your 
wife nagnagging you because she has 
not been invited to the Lady Chan- 
celloress’s soiree, or what not"? Sup- 
pose the Glorvina whom you loved 
so had been yours ? Her eyebrows 
looked as if they could scowl; her 
eyes as if they could flash with 
anger. Remember what a slap she 
gave the little knife-boy for upsetting 
the butter-boat over her tabinet. 
Suppose parvulus aula, a little Batche- 
lor, your son, who had the toothache 
all night in your bedroom ? ” These 
thoughts passed rapidly through my 


mind as I helped myself to the com- 
fortable meal before me. “ I say, 
what a lot of muffins you ’re eating ! ” 
cried innocent Master Lovel. Now 
the married, the wealthy, the pros- 
perous Biddlecombe only took his 
wretched scrap of dry toast. “ Aha ! ” 
you say, “ this man is consoling him- 
self after his misfortune.” O churl ! 
and do you grudge me consolation ? 
“ Thank you, dear Miss Prior. An- 
other cup, and plenty of cream, if 
you please.” Of course. Lady Baker 
was not at the table when I said, 
“ Dear Miss Prior,” at breakfast. 
Before her Ladyship I was as mum 
as a mouse. Elizabeth found occa- 
sion to whisper to me during the day 
in her demure way : “ This is a very 
rare occasion. Lady B. never allows 
me to breakfast alone with Mr. Lovel, 
but has taken her extra nap, I sup- 
pose, because you and Mr. and Mrs. 
Biddlecombe were here.” 

Now it may be that one of the 
double doors of the room which I in- 
habited was occasionally open, and 
that Mr. Batchelor’s eyes and ears 
are uncommonly quick, and note a 
number of things which less observ- 
ant persons would never regard or 
discover ; but out of this room, which 
I occupied for some few days, now 
and subsequently, I looked out as 
from a little ambush upon the pro- 
ceedings of the house, and got a queer 
little insight into the history and 
characters of the personages round 
about me. The two grandmothers 
of Lovel’s children were domineering 
over that easy gentleman, as women 
— not grandmothers merely, but sis- 
ters, wives, aunts, daughters, when 
the chance is given them — will dom- 
ineer. Ah ! Glorvina, what a gray 
mare you might have become had you 
chosen Mr. Batchelor for your con- 
sort ! (But this I only remark Avith 
a parenthetic sigh. ) The tAvo children 
had taken each the side of a grand- 
mamma, and Avhile Master Pop Avas 
declared by his maternal grandmoth- 
er to be a Baker all over, and taught to 
despise sugar-baking and trade, little 


318 


LOVEL THE WIDOWEE. 


Cecilia was IMrs. Bonnington’s favor- 
ite, repeated Watts’s hymns with fer- 
vent precocity, declared that she would 
marry none but a clergyman, preached 
infantine sermons to her brother and 
maid about worldliness, and some- 
what wearied me, if the truth must 
be told, by the intense self-respect 
with which she regarded her own vir- 
tues. The old ladies had that love 
for each other which one may ima- 
gine that their I'elative positions w'ould 
engender. Over the bleeding and 
helpless bodies of Lovel and his wor- 
thy and kind step-hither, Mr. Bon- 
nington, they skirmished, and fired 
shots at each other. Lady B. would 
give hints about second marriages, 
and second families, and so forth, 
which of course made Mrs. Benning- 
ton wince. Mrs. B. had the better 
of Lady Baker, in consequence of the 
latter’s notorious pecuniary irregular- 
ities. She had never had recourse to 
her son’s purse, she could thank 
Heaven. She was not afraid of meet- 
ing any tradesman in Putney or Lon- 
don : she had never been ordered out 
of the house in the late Cecilia’s life- 
time ; she could go to Boulogne and 
enjoy the fresh air there. This was 
the terrific whip she had over Baker. 
Lady B., I regret to say, in conse- 
quence of the failure of remittances, 
had been locked up in prison just at 
a time w hen she w^as in a state of vio- 
lent quarrel with her late daughter, 
and good Mr. Bonnington had helped 
her out of durance. How did I know 
this Bedford, Lovel’s factotum, told 
me : and how the old ladies were 
fighting like tw'O cats. 

There was one point on W'hich the 
two ladies agreed. A very Avcalthy 
tvidower, young still, good-looking 
and good-tcmpci-ed, we know can 
fcometimes find a dear woman to con- 
sole his loneliness and protect his 
motherless children. Prom the neigh- 
boring Heath, from Wimbledon, Roe- 
hampton, Barnes, Mortlake, Rich- 
mond, Esher, Walton, Windsor, nay, 
Reading, Bath, Exeter, and Penzance 
\tself, or from any other quarter of 


Britain over which your fancy may 
please to travel, families would have 
come ready with dear young girls to 
take charge of that man’s future hap- 
piness : but it is a fact that these two 
dragons kept all women off from their 
ward. An unmarried woman, with 
decent good looks, was scarce ever al- 
lowed to enter Slirublands gate. If 
such a one appeared, Lovel’s two 
mothers sallied out, and crunched her 
hapless bones. Once or twice he 
dared to dine Avith his neighbors, but 
the ladies led him such a life that the 
poor creature gave up the practice, and 
faintly announced his preference for 
home, “My dear Batch,” says he, 
“what do I care for the dinners of 
the people round about 1 Has any 
one of them got a better cook or bet- 
ter wine than mine ? When I come 
home from business it is an intoler- 
able nuisance to have to dress and go 
out seven or eight miles to cold entrees, 
and loaded claret, and sweet port. I 
can’t stand it, sir. I iionH stand it” 
(and he stamps his foot in a resolute 
manner). “Give me- an easy life, a 
wdne-mcrchant 1 can trust, and my 
own friends, by my own fireside. 
Shall we have some more ? We can 
manage another bottle betAveen us 
three, Mr. Bonnington ? ” 

“Well,” says Mr. Bonnington, 
Avinking at the ruby goblet, “ 1 am 
sure I have no objection, Ercdcrick, 
to another bo — ” 

“ Cofiee is served, sir,” cries Bed- 
ford, entering. 

“ Well — Avell, perhaps AA’e huA-e had 
enough,” says Avorthy Bonnington. 

“We have had enough; Ave all 
drink too much,” says Lovel, briskly. 
“ Come in to cofiee ? ” 

We go to the draAving-room. Fred 
and I, and the tAvo ladies, sit doAvn 
to a rubber, Avhile Miss Prior plays a 
piece of Beethoven to a slight Avar- 
bling accompaniment from Mr. Ben- 
nington’s handsome nose, Avho has 
fallen asleep over the neAvspaper. 
During our play Bessy glides out of 
the room — a gray shadoAv. Bon- 
nington wakens up Avhen the tray is 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


319 


■ brought in. Ladj Baker likes that 
good old custom : it was always the 
fashion at the Castle, and she takes a 
good glass of negus, too ; and so do 
Ave all ; and the conversation is pretty 
merry, and E'red Love! hopes I shall 
sleep better to-iiiglit, and is very fa- 
cetious about poor Biddlecombe, and 
I* the way in which that eminent Q. C. 

is henpecked by his Avife. 

” Erom my bachelor’s room, then, on 
the ground-floor ; or from my solitary 
Avalks in the garden, Avhence I could 

■ A oversee many things in the house ; 

or from Bedford’s communications to 
' me, which were very friendly, curious, 
and unreserved ; or from my own ob- 
servation, Avhich I promise you can 

Y see as far into the millstones of life as 
most folks, I grew to find the myste- 
ries of Shrublands no longer myste- 
rious to me; and like another Diable 

-r Boiteiix, had the roofs of a pretty 
number of the Shrublands rooms 

■ ^ taken off for me. 

For instance, on that Amry first day 
of my stay, Avhile the family Avere at- 
^ tiring themselves for dinner, I chanced 
? to find tAvo secret cupboards of the 
^ house unlocked, and the contents un- 
& veiled to me. Pinhorn, the children’s 
maid, a giddy little flirting thing in a 

V pink ribbon, brought some articles of 
the toilet into my Worship’s apart- 
ment, and as she retired did not shut 
the door belli nd her. I might have 

^ thought that pert little head had 
never been made to ache by any care ; 
but ah ! black care sits behind the 
j horseman, as Horace remarks, and 
^ not only behind the horseman, but be- 
hind the footman ; and not only on * 
the footman, but on the buxom 
shoulders of the . lady’s maid. So 
with Pinhorn. You surely have re- 
marked respecting domestic servants 
that they address you in a tone 
utterly affected and unnatural, — 
adopting, Avhen they are among each 
other, voices and gestures entirely 
different to those Avhich their employ- 
ers see and hear. Now, this little 
Pinhorn, in her occasional intercourse 
Avith your humble servant, had a 


brisk, quick, fluttering toss of the 
head, and a frisky manner, no doubt 
capable of charming some persons. 
As for me, ancillary allurements have, 
I OAvn, had but small temptations. 
If Venus brought me a bedroom 
candle and a jug of hot Avater — I 
should give her sixpence, and no 
more. Hav'ing, you see, given my 
all to one Avom — Pshaw ! never 
mind that old story. Well, I dare 
say this little creature may have been 
a flirt, but I took no more notice of 
her than if she had been a coal 
scuttle. 

'Now suppose she was a flirt. Sup- 
pose, under a mask of levity, she hid 
a profound sorrow. Do you suppose 
she Avas the first Avoman avIio ever 
has done so 1 Do you suppose be- 
cause she has fifteen pounds a year, 
her tea, sugar, and beer, and told fibs 
to her masters and mistresses, she 
had not a heart 1 She Avent out of 
the room, absolutely coaxing and 
leering at me as she departed, Avith a 
p'cat counterpane over her arm ; but 
in the next apartment I heard her 
voice quite changed, and another 
changed voice too — though not so 
much altered — interrogating her. 
My friend Dick Bedford’s Amice, in 
addressing those Avhom Fortune had 
pleased to make his superiors, was 
gruff and brief. He seemed to be 
anxious to deliver himself of his 
speech to you as quickly as possible ; 
and his tone always seemed to hint, 
“ There — there is ray message, and I 
have delivered it ; but you knoAV per- 
fectly Avell that I am as good as you.” 
And so he Avas, and so I ahvays ad- 
mitted : so even the trembling, be- 
lieAung, flustering, suspicious Lady 
Baker herself admitted Avhen she came 
into communication Avith this man. 
I haAm thought of this little Dick ns 
of Swift at Sheen hard by, Avith Sir 
William Temple : or Spartacus Avhen 
he was a^ yet the serAmnt of the for- 
tunate Roman gentleman Avho OAvned 
him. Noav if Dick was intelligent, 
obedient, useful, only not rebellious, 
with his superiors, I should fancy 


320 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


that among his equals he was by no | 
means pleasant company, and that 
most of them hated him for his arro- 
gance, his honesty, and his scorn of 
them all. 

But women do not always hate a 
man for scorning and despising them. 
Women do not revolt at the rudeness 
and arrogance of us their natural su- 
periors. Women, if properly trained, 
come down to heel at the master’s 
bidding, and lick the hand that has 
been often raised to hit them. I 
do not say the brave little Dick Bed- 
ford ever raised an actual hand to this 
poor serving - girl, but his tongue 
whipped her, liis behavior trampled on 
her, and she cried, and came to him 
w'henever he lifted a finger. Pshaw ! 
Don’t tell me. If you want a qui- 
et, contented, orderly home, and 
things comfortable about you, that is 
the way you must manage your wo- 
men. 

Well, Bedford happens to be in the 
next room. It is the morning-room 
at Shrublands. You enter the dining- 
room from it, and they are in the habit 
of laying out the dessert there, before 
taking it in for dinner. Bedford is 
laying out his dessert as Pinhorn en- 
ters from my chamber, and he be- 
gins upon her with a sarcastic sort of 
grunt, and a “ Ho ! suppose you ’ve 
been making up to B., have you ? ” 

“ O Mr. Bedford, you know very 
well who it is I cafes for ! ” she says, 
with a sigh. 

“ Bother ! ” Mr. B. remarks. 

“ Well, Richard, then ! ” (Here she 
weeps. ) 

“ Leave go my ’and ! — leave go 
my a-hand, I say ! ” (What could 
she have been doing to cause this ex- 
clamation ?) 

“O Richard, it’s not your ’awe? I 
want, — it’s your ah-ah-art, Rich- 
ard ! ” 

“ Mary Pinhorn,” exclaims the 
other, “ what ’s the use of going on 
with this game? You know we 
could n’t be a-happy together, — you 
know your ideers ain’t no good, Mary. 
It ain’t your fault. / don’t blame 


you for it, my dear. Some people are 
born clever, some are born tall : I 
ain’t tall.” 

“ O, you ’re tall enough for me, 
Richard ! ” 

Here Richard again found occasion 
to cry out : “ Don’t, I say ! Suppose 
Baker was to come in and find you 
squeezing of my hand in this woy ? I 
say, some people are born with big 
brains. Miss Pinhorn, and some with 
big figures. Look at that ass Bulkeley, 
Lady B’s man ! He is as big as a Life- 
guardsman, and he has no more edu- 
cation, nor no more ideas, than the 
beef he feeds on.” 

“ La ! Richard, whathever do you 
mean ? ” 

“ Pooh ! Hotv should you knoAv what 
I mean ? Lay them books straight. 
Put the volumes together, stupid ! and 
the papers, and get the table ready for 
nussery tea, and don’t go on there 
mopping your eyes and making a fool 
of yourself, Mary Pinhorn ! ” 

O, your heart is a stone — a stone 
— a stone!” cries Mary, in a burst 
of tears. “ And I wish it was hung 
round my neck, and I was at the 
bottom of the w^ell, and — there’s the 
hup-stairs bell ! ” with which signal I 
suppose Mary disappeared, for I only 
heard a sort of gi imt from Mr. Bed- 
ford ; then the clatter of a dish or two, 
the w heeling of chairs and furniture, 
and then came a brief silence, w hich 
lasted until the entry of Dick’s sub- 
ordinate Buttons, who laid the table 
for the children’s and Miss Prior’s 
tea. 

So here w as an old story told over 
again. Here was love unrequited, and 
a little passionate heart wounded and 
unhappy. My poor little Mary ! As I 
am a sinner, I w ill give thee a crown 
when I go aw'ay, and not a couple of 
shillings, as my wont has been. 
Five shillings Avill not console thee 
much, but they will console thee a 
little. Thou wdlt not imagine that I 
bribe thee with any privy thought of 
evil ? Away ! Ich hahe genosf^cn das 
irdische Gluck — ich hahe — (jelieht ! 

At this juncture I suppose Mrs. 


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“ Where the Sugar goe$.'^ 





LOVEL THE 

Prior must have entered the apart- 
ment. for though I could not hear her 
noiseless step, her little cracked voice 
came pretty clearly to me with a 
“ Good afternoon, Mr. Bedford ! O 
dear me ! what a many — many years 
we have been acquainted. To think 
of the pretty little printer’s boy who 
used to come to Mr. Batchelor, and 
see you grown such a tine man ! ” 

Bedford. “ How ? I ’m only five 
foot four.” 

Mrs. P. “ But such a fine figure, 
Bedford ! You are — now indeed 
you are ! Well, you are strong and 
I am weak. You are well, and I am 
weary and faint.” 

Bedford. “ The tea ’s a coming 
directly, Mrs. Prior.” 

Mrs. P. “ Could you give me a 
glass of water first, — and perhaps a 
little sherry in it, please. O, thank 
you. How good it is ! How it re- 
vives a poor old wretch ! — and your 
cough, Bedford 1 How is your cough? 

I have brought you some lozenges for 
it, — some of Sir Henry Halford’s 
own prescribing for my dear Husband, 
and — ” 

Bedford (abnipth/). “ I must go, 
— never mind the cough now, Mrs. 
P.” 

Mrs. P. ‘‘ What ’s here ? almonds 
and raisins, macaroons, preserved 
apricots, biscuits for dessert — and — 
la bless the man ! — how you a sta — 
artled me ” 

Bedford. “ Don’t ! Mrs. Prior ; 

I beg and implore of you, keep your 
’ands out of the dessert. I can’t stand 
it. I must tell the governor if this 
game goes on.” 

Mrs. P. “Ah! Mr. Bedford, 
it is for my poor — poor child at 
home ; the doctor recommended 
her apricots. Ay, indeed, dear 
Bedford, he did, for her poor 
chest 1 ” 

Bedford. “ And I ’m blest if you 
have n’t been at the sherry-bottle 
again I 0 Mrs. P., you drive me 
wild — you do. I can’t see Lovel 
put upon in this way. You know it ’s 
only last week I whopped the boy for 
14 * 


WIDOWER. 321 

stealing the sherry, and 't was yoa 
done it.” 

Mrs. Prior {passionately). “For 
a siek child, Bedford. What won’t a 
mother do for her sick child ! ” 

Bedford. “ Your children ’s ah 
ways sick. You’re always taking 
things for ’em. I tell you, by the 
laws, I won’t and must n’t stand it, 
Mrs. P.” 

Mrs. Prior {with much spirit), 
“ Go and tell your master, Bedford ! 
Go and tell tales of me, sir. Go 
and have me dismissed out of this 
bouse. Go and have my daughter 
dismissed out of this house, and her 
poor mother brought to disgrace.” 

Bedford. “Mrs. Prior — Mrs. 
Prior 1 you have been a taking the 
sherry. A glass I don’t mind ; but 
you’ve been a bringing that bottle 
again.” 

Mrs. P. {whimperiiuj). “ It ’s 
for Charlotte, Bedford ! my poor 
delicate angel of a Shatty ! She ’s 
ordered it, indeed she is 1 ” 

Bedford. “ Confound your Shat, 
ty 1 1 can’t stand it, I must n’t, and 

won’t, Mrs. P. ! ” 

Here a noise and clatter of other 
persons arriving interrupted the con- 
versation between Lovel’s major-domo 
and the mother of the children’s gov- 
erness, and I presently heard Master 
Pop’s voice saying, “ You ’re going 
to tea with us, Mrs. Prior ? ” 

Mrs. P. “Your kind, dear grand- 
mammas have asked me, dear Mas- 
ter Popham.” 

Pop. “ But you ’d like to go to din. 
ner best, would n’t you ? I dare say 
you have doocid bad dinners at your 
house. Have n’t you, Mrs. Prior? ” 

Cissy. “ Don’t say doocid. It ’a 
a naughty word, Popham ! ” 

Pop. “ I will say doocid. Doo' 
oo-ooeid ! There ! And I ’ll say 
worse words too, if I please, and you 
hold your tongue. What ’s there for 
tea ? jam for tea ? strawberries for 
tea ? muffins for tea ? That ’s it ; 
strawberries and muffins for tea 1 
And we’ll go in to dessert besides; 
that ’s prime ! I say. Miss Prior ? ” 
U 


322 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


Miss Prior. “ What do you say, 
Popliam 1 ” 

Pop. “ Should n’t you like to go 
into dessert 1 — there ’s lots of good 
things there, — and have wine '? Only 
when ^'randmamma tells her story 
about — about my grandfather and 
King George that what-d’ye-call’em : 
King George the Fourth — ” 

Cis. “Ascended the throne 1820; 
died at W’indsor 1830.” 

Pop. “Bother Windsor! Well, 
when she tells that story, 1 can tell you 
that ain’t very good fun.” 

Cis. “ And it’s rude of you to speak 
in that way of your grandmamma. 
Pop ! ” 

Pop. “And you ’ll hold your tongue. 
Miss! And I shall speak as I like. 
And I’m a man, and I don’t want 
any of your stuff and nonsense. I 
say, Mary, give us the marmalade ! ” 

Cis. “ You have had plenty to 
eat, and boys ought n’t to have so 
much.” 

Pop. “Boys may have what the}^ 
like. Boys can cat twice as much as 
women. There, I don’t want any 
more. Anybody may have the rest.” 

Mrs. Prior. “ What nice marma- 
lade ! I know some children, my 
dears, who — ” 

Miss P. (imploringly ). Mamma, I 
beseech you — ” 

Mrs. P. “ I know three dear chil- 
dren who very — very seldom have 
nice marmalade and delicious cake.” 

Pop. “ I know whom you mean : 
you mean Augustus, and Frederick, 
and Fanny — 3 'our children'? Well 
thej^ shall have marmalade and cake.” 

Cis. “O yes, I will give them 
all mine.” 

Pop. (tcho speaks, I think, as if his 
month itns full). “I won’t give ’em 
mine : but thej" can have another pot, 
3 'ou know. You have always got a 
basket with you ; you know you 
have, Mrs. Prior. You had it the 
dav you took the cold fowl ” 

Mrs. P. “For the poor blind 
black man ! O, how thankful he 
was to his dear young jenchictors ! 
He is a man and a brother, and to 


help him was most kind of you, dear 
Master Popham ! ” 

Pop. “ That black beggar my 
brother ? He ain’t my brother ! ” 
Mrs. P. “ Ko, dears, you have both 
the most lovely complexions in the 
world.” 

Pop. “ Bother complexions ! Isay, 
Mary, another pot of marmalade.” 

Mary. “I don’t know, Master 
Pop — ” 

Pop. “ I will have it, I sa 3 ^ If ^mu 
don’t, I’ll smash everything, I will.” 
Cis. “ O you naughty, rude boy ! ” 
Pop. “ Hold your tongue, stupid ! 
I will have it, I say.” 

Mrs. P. “ Do humor him, Mary, 
please. And I ’m sure my dear chil- 
dren at home will be better for it.” 

Pop. “ There ’s your basket. Now 
put this cake in, and this bit of but- 
ter, and this sugar on the top of the 
butter. Hurray ! hurraj' ! O, what 
jolly fun! Here’s some cake — no, 
I think I ’ll keep that ; and, Mrs. Pri- 
or, tell Gus, and Fanny, and Fred, 
I sent it to ’em, and they shall never 
want for anything as long as Fred- 
erick Popham Baker Lovel, Esquire, 
can give it them. Did Gus like my 
gray great-coat that I did n’t want ? ” 
Miss P. “You did not give him 
your new great-coat ? ” 

Pop. “ It was beastly ugly, and I 
did give it him ; and I ’ll give him this 
if I choose. And don’t you speak to 
me ; I ’m going to school, and I ain’t 
going to have no governesses soon.” 

Mrs. Prior. “Ah, dear child, what 
a nice coat it is ; and how well my 
poor bo}' looks in it ! ” 

Miss Prior. “Mother, mother! 
I implore you — mother ! ” 

Mr. Lovel enters. “ So the chil- 
dren at high tea ! How d’ ye do, IMrs. 
Prior 1 I think W'C shall be able to 
manage that little matter for your sec- 
ond boy, Mrs. Prior.” 

Mrs. Prior. “ Heaven bless you 
— bless you, m\' dear, kind benefac- 
tor ! Don’t prevent me, Elizabeth : 
I must kiss his hand. There ! ” 

And here the second bell rings, and 
I enter the morning-room, and can see 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


323 


Mrs. Prior’s great basket popped cxm- 
ningly under the table-cloth. Her 
basket 1 — her porte-vianteau, her porte- 
bouteille, her porte-gdteau, lier porte-pan- 
talon, her porte-hutin in general. Thus 
I could see that every day Mrs. Prior 
visited Shrublands she gleaned greed- 
ily of the harvest. Well, Boaz was 
rich, and this ruthless Kuth was hun- 
gry and poor. 

At the welcome summons of the 
second bell Mr. and Mrs. Bennington 
jilso made their appearance ; the latter 
in the new cap which Mrs. Prior had 
admired, and which she saluted with 
a nod of smiling recognition : “ Dear 
madam, it is lovely, — I told you it 
was,” whispers Mrs. P., and the 
wearer of the blue ribbons turned her 
bonny, good-natured face toward the 
looking-glass, and I hope saw no 
reason to donbt Mrs. Prior’s sincerity. 
As for Bonnington, I could perceive 
that he had been taking a little nap 
before dinner, — a practice by which 
the appetite is improved, I think, and 
the intellect prepared for the bland 
jDrandial conversation. 

“ Have the children been quite 
good ? ” asks papa of the governess. 

“ There are worse children, sir,” 
says Miss Prior, meekly. 

“ Make haste and have your din- 
ner ; we are coming into dessert ! ” 
cries Pop. 

“ You would not have us go to dine 
without your grandmother ? ” papa 
asks. Dine without Lady Baker, 
indeed ! I should have liked to see 
him go to dinner without Lady 
Baker. 

Pending her Ladyship’s arrival, 
papa and Mr. Bonnington walk to the 
open window, and gaze on the lawn 
and the towers of Putney rising over 
the wall. 

“ Ah, my good Mrs. Prior,” cries 
]\Irs. Bonnington, “ those grandchil- 
dren of mine are sadly spoiled.” 

“ Not by you, dear madam,” says 
Mrs. Prior, with a look of commiser- 
ation. “ Yonr dear children at home 
are, I am sure, perfect models of 
goodness. Is Master Edward well, 


ma’am ? and Master Robert, and 
Master Richard, and dear, funny lit- 
tle Master William ? Ah, what bless- 
ings those children are to you ! If 
a certain wilful little nephew of theirs 
took after them ! ” 

“ The little naughty wretch ! ” cried 
Mrs. Bonnington ; “ do you know. 
Prior, my grandson Frederick — (I 
don’t know why they call him Pop- 
ham in this house, or why he should 
be ashamed of his father’s name) — 
do you know that Popham spilt the 
ink over my dear husband’s bands, 
which he keeps in his great dictionary, 
and fought with my Richard, who is 
three years older than Popham, and 
actually beat his own uncle ! ” 

“ Gracious goodness ! ” I cried ; 
‘‘you don’t mean to say, ma’am, that 
Pop has been laying violent hands 
upon his venerable relative ? ” I feel 
ever so gentle a pull at my coat Was 
it Miss Prior who warned me not to 
indulge in the sarcastic method with 
good Mrs. Bonnington ? 

“I don’t know xvhy you call my 
poor child a venerable rciative,” Mrs. 
B. remarks. “ I know that Popham 
was very rude to him; and then 
Robert came to his brother, and that 
graceless little Popham took a stick, 
and my husband came out, and do 
you know Popham Lovel actually 
kicked Mr. Bonnington on the 
shins, and butted him like a little 
naughty ram ; and if you think such 
conduct is a subject for ridicule — I 
don't, Mr. Batcheior ! ” 

“My dear — dear lady ! ” I cried, 
seizing her h.and ; for she was going 
to cry, and in woman’s eye the un- 
answerable tear always raises a deuce 
of a commotion in my mind. “ I 
would not for the world say a word 
that should willingly vex you ; and 
as for Popham, I give you my honor, 
I think nothing would do that child 
so much good as a good whipping.” 

“ He is spoiled, madam ; we know 
by whom," says Mrs. Prior. “ Dear 
Lady Baker ! how that red docs be- 
come your Ladyship.” In fact. Lady 
B. sailed in at this juncture, arrayed 


324 


LOVEL THE WIDOWEE. 


in ribbons of scarlet; with many 
broodies, bangles, and other gim- 
cracks ornamenting her plenteous per- 
son. And now her Ladyship having 
arrived, Bedford announced that din- 
ner was served, and Lovel gave his 
mother-in-law an arm, while I oft’ered 
mine to Mrs. Bonnington to lead her 
to the adjoining dining-room. And j 
the pacable kind soul speedily made 
peace with me. And we ate and 
drank of Level’s best. And Lady 
Baker told us her celebrated anecdote 
of George the Fourth’s compliment to 
her late dear husband, §ir George, 
when his Majesty visited Ireland. 
Mrs. Prior and her basket were gone 
when we repaired to the drawing- 
room : having been hunting all day, 
the hungry mother had returned witli 
her prey to her wide - mouthed birdi- 
kins. Elizabeth looked very pale and 
handsome, reading at her lamp. And 
whist and the little tray finished the 
second day at Shrublands. 

I paced the moonlit walk alone 
when the famil}" had gone to rcst;| 
and smoked my cigar under the tran - 1 
quil stars. I had been some thirty 
hours in the house, and what a queer 
little drama was unfolding itself be- 
fore me! What struggles and pas- 
sions were going on here, — what ccr- 
tamina and inohts animonm ! Here 
was Lovel, this willing horse; and j 
what a crowd of relations, what ai 
heap of luggage had the honest fel- 
low to carry ! how that little Mrs. j 
Prior was working, and scheming, and 
tacking, and flattering, and fawning, 
and plundering, to be sure ! And 
that serene Elizabeth, with Avhat 
consummate skill, art, and prudence 
liad she to act, to keep her ])lacc with 
two such rivals reigning over her ! j 
And Elizabeth not only kept her 
place but she actually was liked by j 
those two Avomen I Why, Eliza- 
beth Prior, my wonder and respect 
for thee increase with every hour dur- 
ing which I contemplate thy charac- 
ter ! How is it that you live with 
those lionesses, and are not torn to j 
pieces 1 What sops of flattery do 1 


you cast to them to appease them 1 
IPerhaps I do not think my Elizabeth 
brings up her two children very well, 
and, indeed, have seldom become ac- 
quainted with young people more 
odious. But is the fault hers, or is it 
Fortune’s spite ? How, with these two 
grandmothers spoiling the children 
alternately, can the governess do bet- 
ter than she does ? How has she 
managed to lull their ndtural jeal- 
ousy I will work out that intricate 
problem, that I will, ere many days 
are OAer. And there are other mys- 
teries which I perceive. There is 
poor Mary breaking her heart for the 
butler. That butler, why does he 
connive at the rogueries of Mrs. 
Priori Ha! herein lies a mystery, 
too ; and I vow I will penetrate it ere- 
long. So saying, I fling aAvay the 
butt-end of the fragrant companion 
of my solitude, and enter into my 
room by the open French window just 
as Bedford walks in at the door. I 
had heard the voice of that worthy 
domestic warbling a grave melody 
from his pantry Avindow as I paced 
the laAvn. When the family goes to 
rest, Bedford passes a couple of hours 
in study in his pantry, perusing the 
ncAvsppers and the new Avorks, and 
forming his opinion on books and 
politics. Indeed I haA’c reason to 
believe that the letters in the “ Putney 
Herald’^ and “ Mortlakc Monitor,” 
signed, “ A Voice from the Base- 
ment,” Avere Mr. Bedford’s composi- 
tion. 

“ Come to see all safe for the night, 
sir, and the windoAvs closed before 
you turn in,” Mr. Dick remarks. 
“ Best not leave ’em open, even if 
you arc asleep inside — catch cold — 
many bad people about. Remember 
Bromly murder ! — Enter at French 
AvindoAvs — you cry out — cut your 
throat — and there ’s a fine paragraph 
for papers next morning ! ” 

“ What a good voice you have, Bed- 
ford,” I say ; “ I heard* you Avarbling 
just noAV — a famous bass, on my 
word ! ” 

“ Ahvays fond of music, — sing 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


325 


when! ’m cleaning my plate, — learned 
in Old Beak Street. She used to 
teach me,” and he points towards the 
upper floors. 

“ What a little chap you were then ! 
— when you came for my proofs lor 
the Museum,” I remark. 

“ I ain’t a very big one now, sir : 
but it ain’t the big ones that do the 
best work,” remarks the butler. 

“ I remember Miss Prior saying 
that you were as old as she was.” 

“ Hm ! and I scarce came up to 
her — eh — elbow.” (Bedford had con- 
stantly to do battle with the aspirates. 
He conquered them, but you could see 
there was a struggle. ) 

“And it was Miss Prior taught 
you to sing ” I say, looking him full 
in the face. 

He dropped his eyes, — he could 
not bear my scrutiny. I knew the 
whole story now. 

“ When Mrs. Lovel died at Naples, 
Miss Prior brought home the children, 
and you acted as courier to the whole 
party 1 ” 

“ Yes, sir,” says Bedford. “ We 
had the carriage, and of course poor 
Mrs. L. was sent home by sea, and I 
brought home the young ones, and — 
and -the rest of the family. I could 
say, Avanti ! avanti ! to the Italian pos- 
tilions, and ask for cles chevaux when 
we crossed the Halps — the Alps — 1 
beg your pardon, sir.” 

“ And you used to see the party to 
their rooms at the inns, and call them 
up in the morning, and you had a 
blunderbuss in the rumble to shoot the 
robbers ? ” 

“ Yes,” says Bedford. 

“ And it was a pleasant time ? ” 

“ Yes, says Bedford, groaning, and 
hanging down his miserable head. 
“ O yes, it was a pleasant time.” 

He turned aAvay ; he stamped his 
foot ; he gave a sort of imprecation ; 
he pretended to look at some books, 
and dust them with a napkin which 
he carried. I saw the matter at 
once. “ Poor Dick ! ” says I. 

“It’s the old — old story,” says 
Dick “ It ’s you and the Hirish girl 


over again, sir. I ’m only a servant 
I know ; but I ’m a — Confound it ! ” 
And here he stuck his flsts into his 
eyes. 

“ And this is the reason you allow 
old Mrs. Prior to steal the sherry and 
the sugar T ” I ask. 

“ How do you knoAV that ? — you 
remember how she prigged in Beak 
Street 1 ” asks Bedford, fiercely. 

“ I overheard you and her just be- 
fore dinner,” I said. 

“ You had better go and tell Lovel 

— have me turned out of the house. 
That ’s the best thing that can be 
done,” cries Bedford again, fiercely, 
stamping his feet. 

“ It is always my custom to do as 
much mischief as I possibly can, DicH 
Bedford,” I say, with fine irony. 

He seizes my hand. “No, you ’ra 
a trump, — everybody knows that; 
beg pardon, sir ; but you see I ’m so 

— so — dash ! — mi sellable, that J 
hardly know whether I ’m walking on 
my head or my heels.” 

“ You have n’t succeeded in touch, 
ing her heart, then, my poor Dick ? ” 
I said. 

Dick shook his head. “ She has 
no heart,” he said. “ If she ever ha(i 
any that foliar in India took it awaj 
with him. She don’t care for anybodji 
alive. She likes me as well as any 
one. I think she appreciates me, you 
see, sir ; she can’t ’elp it — P m blest 
if she can. She knows I am a better 
man than most of the chaps that come 
down here, — I am, if I Avas n’t a ser. 
vant. If I Avere only an apothecary, — ■ 
like that grinning jackass Avho comes 
here from Barnes in his gig, and Avanta 
to marry her, — she ’d have me. She 
keeps him on, and encourages him, — • 
she can do that cleverly enough. An(l 
the old dragon fancies she is fond of 
him. PshaAV ! Why am I making jv 
fool of myself? — I am only a servant 
Mary’s good enough for me; she’U 
have me first enough. I beg your par- 
don, sir ; I am making a fool of my« 
self ; I ain’t the first, sir. Good night, 
sir ; hope you ’ll sleep Avell.” And 
Dick departs to his pantry and his 


32G 


LOVEL THE .WIDOWER. 


private cares, and I think, Here is 
anotlier victim who is writhing under 
the merciless arrows of the universal 
torturer.’^ 

“ He is a very singular person,” 
Miss Prior remarked to me, as, next 
day, I happened to be walking on Put- 
ney Heath by her side, Avhile her young 
charges trotted on and quarrelled in 
the distance. “ I wonder where the 
W'orld will stop next, dear Mr. Batch- 
elor, and how far the march of intel- 
lect will proceed ! Any one so free, 
and easy, and cool as tliis Mr. Bedford 
I never saw. When we were abroad 
with poor Mrs. Lovel, he picked up 
Prench and Italian in quite a surpris- 
ing way. He takes books down from 
the library now : the most abstruse 
works, — works that I couldn’t pre- 
tend to read, I ’rn sure. Mr. Bon- 
nington says he has taught himself 
history, and Horace in Latin, and 
algebra, and I don’t know what be- 
sides. He talked to the servants and 
tradespeople at Naples much better 
than I could, I assure you.” And 
Elizabeth tosses up her head heaven- 
ward, as if she would ask of yonder 
skies how such a man could possibly 
be as good as herself. 

She stepped along the Heath, — 
slim, stately, healthly, tall, — her firm, 
neat foot treading swiftly over the 
grass. She wore her blue spectacles, 
but I think she could have looked at 
the sun without the glasses and with- 
out wincing. That sun was playing 
with her tawny, wavy ringlets, "and 
scattering gold dust over them. 

“ It is wonderful,” said I, admiring 
her, “ how these people give themselves 
airs, and try to imitate their betters ! ” 

“ Most extraordinary ! ” says Bessy. 
She had not one particle of humor in 
all her composition. I think Dick 
Bedford was right ; and she had no 
heart. Well, she had famous lungs, 
hoftlth, appetite; and with these one 
may get through life not uncomfort- 
ably. 

“ You and Saint Cecilia got on 
pretty well, Bessy ? ” I ask. 

‘‘ Saint who ” 


“The late Mrs. L.” 

“(), Mrs. Lovel — yes. What an 
odd person you are ! I did not under- 
stand whom you meant,” says Eliza- 
beth the downright. 

“ Not a good temper, I should 
think 1 She and Fred fought "? ” 

“ He never fought.” 

“ I think a little bird has told me 
that she was not averse to the admira- 
tion of our sex ? ” 

“ I don’t speak ill of my friends, 
Mr. Batchelor ! ” replies Elizabeth the 
prudent. 

“ You must have difficult Avork Avith 
the tAvo old ladies at Shrublands 1 ” 

Bessy shrugs her shoulders. “A 
little management is necessary in all 
ffimilies,” she says. “ The ladies are 
naturally a little jealous one of the 
other ; but they are both of them not 
unkind to me in the main ; and I 
have to bear no more than other 
AA^omen in my situation. It Avas not 
all pleasure at St. Boniface, Mr. 
Batchelor, Avith my uncle and aunt. 
I suppose all governesses have their 
difficulties ; and I must get over mine 
as best I can, and be thankful for the 
liberal salary Avhicli your kindness 
procured for me, and Avhich enables 
me to help my poor mother and my 
brothers and sisters.” 

“ I suppose you giv'e all your money 
to her ? ” 

“ Nearly all. They must have it ; 
poor mamma has so many mouths to 
feed.” 

“ And notre petit ccetir, Bessy ? ” I 
ask, looking in her fresh face. “ Have 
Ave replaced the Indian officer? ”' 

Another shrug of the shoulder. “ I 
suppose Ave all get over those follies, 
Mr. Batchelor. I remember some- 
body else Avas in a sad Avay too,” — 
and she looks askance at the victim 
of Glorvina. “ Mt/ folly is dead and 
buried long ago. I have to Avork so 
hard for mamma, and my brothers 
and sisters, that I have no time for 
such nonsense.” 

Here a gentleman in a natty gig, 
Avith a high-trotting horse, came 
spanking tOAvard us over the common. 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


327 


and with my profound knowledge of 
human nature I saw at once that the 
servant l)y the driver’s side was a 
little doctor’s boy, and the gentleman 
himself was a neat and trim general 
practitioner. 

He stared at me grimly, as he made 
a bow to Miss Bessy. I saw jealousy 
and suspicion in his aspect. 

“ Thank you, dear Mr. Drencher,” 
says Bessy, “ for your kindness to 
mamma and our children. You are 
going to call at Shrublands ? Lady 
Baker was indisposed this moxming. 
She says, when she can’t have Dr. 
Piper, there ’s nobody like you.” 
And this artful one smiles blandly on 
Mr. Drencher. 

“ I have got the workhouse, and a 
case at Hoehampton, and I shall be 
at Shrublands about two, Miss Prior,” 
says that young doctor whom Bed- 
ford had called a grinning jackass. 
He laid an eager emphasis on the 
two. Go to ! I know Avhat two and 
two mean as well as most people, Mr. | 
Drencher ! Glances of rage he shot j 
at me from out his gig. The serpents ; 
of that miserable Esculapius unwound 
themselves from his rod, and were 
gnawing at his swollen heart !■ 

“ He has a good practice, Mr. 
Drencher ? ” I ask, sly rogue as I am. 

“ He is very good to mamma and 
our children. His practice Avith them 
does not profit him much,” says 
Bessy. 

“And I suppose our walk will be 
OA-^er before two o’clock ? ” remarks 
that slyboots Avho is Avalking Avith 
Miss Prior. 

“ I hope so. Why, it is our dinner- 
time ; and this Avalk on the Heath 
does make one so hungry ! ” cries the 
governess. 

“ Bessy Prior,” I said, “ it is my 
belief that you no more Avant specta- 
cles than a cat in the twilight.’^ To 
Avhich she re])lied, that I Avas such a 
strange, odd man, she really could 
not understand me. 

We Avere back at Shrublands at 
tvA'o. Of course aa^c must not keep 
the children’s dinner Avaiting : and of 


course Mr. Drencher drove up at five 
minutes past tAvo, Avith his gig-horse 
all in a lather. I Avho kncAv the se- 
crets of the house Avas amused to see 
the furious glances Avhich Bedford 
darted from the sideboard, or as he 
seiwed the doctor Avith cutlets. 
Drencher, for his part, scoAvlcd at me. 
I, for my part, Avas easy, Avitty, pleas- 
ant, and, I trust, profoundly Avicked 
and malicious. I bragged about my 
aristocratic friends to Lady Baker. I 
trumped her old-Avorld stories about 
George the Fourth at Dublin with the 
latest dandified intelligence I had 
learned at the club. That the young 
doctor should be dazzled and dis- 
gusted Avas, I own, my Avish; and I 
enjoyed his rage as I saw him choking 
Avith jealousy over his victuals. 

But Avhy Avas Lady Baker sulky 
Avith me'? Hoav came it my fashion- 
able stories had no effect upon that 
polite matron 'I Yesterday at dinner 
she had been gracious enotigh : and 
turning her back upon those poor 
simple Bonningtons, Avho kncAV noth- 
ing of the beau mondc at all, had con- 
descemled to address herself specially 
to me several times Avith an “ I need 
not tell you, Mr. Batchelor, that the 
Duchess of Dorsetshire’s maiden name 
Avas De Bobus ” ; or, “ You knoAv very 
Avell that the etiquette at the Lord 
Lieutenant’s balls, at Dublin Castle, is 
for the AviA'es of Baronets to — ,” etc. 

Noav Avhcnce, I say, did it arise that 
Lady Baker, Avho had been kind and 
fiimiliar Avith me on Sunday, should 
on Monday turn me a shoulder as 
cold as that lamb Avhich I offered to 
carve for the family, and Avhich re- 
mained from yesterday’s quarter? I 
had thought of staying but two days 
at Shrublands. I generally am bored 
at country-houses. I Avas going aAvay 
on Monday morning ; but Lovel, 
Avhen he and I and the children and 
Miss Prior breakfasted together be- 
fore he Avent to business, pressed me 
to stay so heartily and sincerely that 
I agreed, gladly enough, to remain. 
I could finish a scene or two of my 
tragedy at my leisure ; besides, there 


328 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


v;ere one or two little comedies j?oing 
on in the house which inspired me 
with no little curiosity. 

Lady Baker growled at me, then, 
during lunch-time. She addressed 
herself in whispers and hints to Mr. 
I^rencher. She had in her own man 
Bulkeley, nnd bullied him. She de- 
sired to know whether she was to 
have the barouche or not ; and when 
informed that it was at her Lady- 
ship’s service, said it was a great 
deal too cold for the open carriage, 
and that she Avould have the brough- 
am. Wiien she was told that Mr. 
and Mrs. Bonnington had impounded 
the brougham, she said she had no 
idea of jjeople taking other people’s 
carriages ; and when Mr. Bedford 
remarked that her Ladyship had her 
choice tliat morning, and had chosen 
the barouche, she said, “ 1 did n’t 
speak to you, sir ; and I will thank 
you not to address me until you are 
spoken to ! ” She made the place so 
hot that I began to wish I had quitted 
it. 

“ And pray, IMiss Prior, where is 
Captain Baker to sleep,” she asked, 
“ now that the ground-floor room is 
engaged '? ” 

Miss Prior meekly said, “ Captain 
Baker would have the pink room.” 

“ The room on my landing-place, 
without double doors? Impossible! 
Clarence is always smoking, Clar- 
ence will fill the whole house with 
his smoke He shall not sleep in the 
pink room. I expected the ground- 
floor room for him, Avhich — a — this 
gentleman persists in not vacating.” 
And the dear creature looked me full 
in the face. 

“ This gentleman smokes, too, and 
is so comfortable where he is, that he 
proposes to remain there,” I say, 
with a bland smile. 

“ Haspic of ploA^ers’ eggs, sir,” 
says Bedford, handing a dish over 
my back. And he actually gave me 
a little dig and growled, “ Go it — 
give it her.” 

“ There is a capital inn on the 
Heath,” I continued, peeling one of 


my opal favorites “If Captain Ba- 
ker must smoke, he may have a room 
there.” 

“ Sir ! my son docs not Ih'C at 
inns,” cries Lady Baker. 

“0 grandma! Don’t he, though? 
And was n’t there a row at the Star 
and Garter ; and did n’t pa pay Uncle 
Clarence’s bill there, though ? ” 

“ Silence, Popham. Little boys 
should be seen and not heard,” says 
Ciss3^ “ Should nT little boys be 
seen and not heard. Miss Prior "? ” 

“ They should n’t insult their 
grandmothers, O my Cecilia — my 
Cecilia! ” cries Lady Baker, lifting 
her hand. 

“ You sha’ n’t hit me ! I say, you 
sha’n’t hit me! ” roars Pop, starting 
back, and beginning to square at his 
enraged ancestress. The scene Avas 
groAving painful. And there Avas that 
rascal of a Bedford choking Avith sup- 
pressed laugliter at tlie sideboard. 
Bulkeley, her Ladyship’s man, stood 
calm as fote ; but young Buttons 
burst out in a guffaAv ; on Avhich, I 
assure you. Lady Baker looked as 
saA^age as Lady Macbeth. 

“ Am I to be insulted by my daugh- 
ter’s servants ? ” cries Lady Baker. 
“ 1 Avill leaA^e the house this instant.” 

“ At Avhat hour Avill your Ladyship 
haAX the barouche? ” says Bedford, 
Avith perfect gravity. 

If Mr. Drencher had whipped out 
a lancet and bled Lady B. on the 
spot, he AAOuld have done her good. 
I shall draAvthe curtain OA-er this sad, 
this humiliating scene. Drop, little 
curtain ! on this absurd little act. 

— ♦ 

CHAPTER IV. 

A BLACK SHEEP. 

The being for Avhom my friend 
Dick Bedford seemed to have a spe- 
cial contempt and aversion Avas Mr. 
Bulkeley, the tall footman in attend- 
ance upon LoA^el’s dear mother-in- 
laAV. One of the causes of Bedford’s 
wrath the Avorthy felloAV explained to 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


329 


; me. In the servants’ hall Bulkeley 
j was in the habit of speaking in disre- 
1 spectful and satirical terms of his mis- 
j tress, enlarging upon her many foibles, 

I and describing her pecuniary dilhcul- 
! ties to the many huhitues of that scc- 
I ond social circle at Slirublands. The 
j hold which Mr. Bulkeley had over 
! his lady lay in a long-unsettled ac- 
I count of wages, which her Ladyship 
i Avas quite disinclined to discharge. 

: And, in spite of this insolvency, the 
I footman must have found his profit 
j in the place, for he continued to hold 
i it from year to year, and to fatten on 
I his earnings, such as they Avere. My 
i Lady’s dignity did not alloAV her to 
I travel Avithout this huge personage in 
I her train ; and a great comfort it 
! must have been to her to reflect that 
I in all the country-houses Avhich she 
i visited (and she Avould go Avherever 
she could force an invitation) her at- 
i tendant freely explained himself re- 
' garding her peculiarities, and made 
i his brother servants aware of his mis- 
! tress’s embarrassed condition. And 
I yet the Avoman, whom I suppose no 
j soul alive respected (unless, happily, 
she herself had a hankering delusion 
i that she Avas a respectable woman), 
i thought that her position in life for- 
1 bade her to move abroad Avithout a 
j muid, and this hulking encumbrance 
I in plush ; and never Avas seen any- 
j Avhere in Avatering-place, country- 
j house, hotel, unless she Avas so at- 
! tended. 

i BetAveen Bedford and Bulkeley, 
j then, there Avas feud and mutual 
I hatred. Bedford chafed the big man 
I b}" constant sneers and sarcasms, 
Avhich penetrated the other’s dull hide, 
and caused him frequently to assert 
that he Avould punch Dick’s ugly 
head off. The housekeeper had fre- 
quently to interpose, and fling her 
matronly arms between these men of 
Avar ; and perhaps Bedford Avas forced 
to be still at times, for Bulkeley Avas 
nine inches taller than himself, and 
was perpetually bragging of his skill 
and feats as a bruiser. This sultan 
may also have wished to fling his 


pocket-handkerchief to Miss Mary 
Pinhorn, Avho, though she loved Bed- 
ford’s Avit and clcA’crness, might also 
be not insensible to the magnificent 
chest, calves, Avhiskers of Mr. Bulke- 
ley. On this delicate subject, hoAvcA'cr, 
1 can’t speak. The men hated each 
other. You have, no doubt, remarked 
in your experience of life, that Avhen 
men do hate each other, about a 
Avoman, or some other cause, the real 
reason is never assigned. You say, 
“ The conduct of such and such a 
man to his grandmother, — his be- 
havior in selling that horse to Ben- 
son, — his manner of brushing his hair 
doAvn the middle,” — or Avhat you 
Avill, — “ makes him so offensive to 
me that I can’t endure him.” His 
A'crses, therefore, are mediocre ; his 
speeches in Parliament are utter fail- 
ures ; his practice at the bar is dAvin- 
dling every year ; his poAvers (always 
small) arc utterly leaving him, and 
he is repeating his confounded jokes 
until they quite nauseate. Why, only 
about myself, and Avithin these three 
days, I read a nice little article — 
Avritten in sorroAV, you knoAv, not in 
anger — by our eminent confrere 
Wiggins,* deploi'ing the decay of, 
etc., etc. And Wiggins’s little article 
Avhich Avas not found suitable for a 
certain Magazine ? — Allons done ! 
The drunkard says the pickled salmon 
gave him the headache; the man Avho 
hates us gives a reason, but not the 
reason. Bedford Avas angry Avith 
Bulkeley for abusing his mistress at 
the servants’ table ? Yes. But for 
Avhat else besides ? I don’t care, — nor 
possibly does your Worship, the exalt- 
ed reader, for these low vulgar 
kitchen quarrels. 

Out of that ground-floor room, then, 
I Avould not move, in spite of the ut- 
most efforts of my Lady Baker’s 
broad shoulder to push me out; and 
Avith many grins that evening Bed- 
ford complimented me on my gallant- 
ry in routing the enemy at luncheon. 

* To another celebrated critic. Dear 
Sir, — You think I mean you, but, upon my 
honor, I don’t. 


330 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


I think he may possibly have told his 
master, for Lovel looked very much 
alarmed and uneasy when we greeted 
each other on his return from the 
city, hut became more composed when 
Lady Baker appeared at the second 
dinner-bell, without a trace on her 
tine countenance of that storm which 
had caused all her waves to heave 
with such commotion at noon. How 
finely some people, by the way, can 
hang up quarrels, — or pop them into a 
drawer, as they do their work, when 
dinner is announced, and take them 
out again at a convenient season ! 
Baker was mild, gentle, a thought sad 
and sentimental, — tenderly interested 
about her dear son and daughter in 
Ireland, whom she must go and see, — 
quite easy in hand, in a word, and to 
the immense relief of all of us. She 
kissed Lovel on retiring, and prayed 
blessings on her Frederick. She 
pointed to the picture : nothing could 
be more melancholy or more gracious. 

“ She go ! ” says Mr. Bedford to 
me at night, — “ not she. She knows 
when she ’s well off ; was obliged to 
turn out of Bakerstown before she 
came here : that brute Bulkeley told 
me so. She ’s always quarrelling with 
her son and his wife. Angels don’t 
grow everywhere as they do at 'Put- 
ney, Mr. B. ! You gave it her well 
to-day at lunch, — you did, though ! ” 
During my stay at Shrublands Mr. 
Bedford paid me a regular evening 
visit in my room, set the carte du pays 
before me, and in his curt way ac- 
quainted me with the characters of 
the inmates of the house and the inci- 
dents occurring therein. 

Captain Clarence Baker did not 
come to Shrublands on the day when 
his anxious mother wished to clear 
out my nest (and expel the amiable 
bird in it) for her son’s benefit. I be- 
lieve an important fight which was to 
come off in the Essex Marshes, and 
which was postponed in consequence 
of the interposition of the county 
magistrates, was the occasion, or at 
any rate, the pretext of the Captain’s 
delay. “ He likes seeing fights better 


than going to ’em, the Captain does,’* 
my major-domo remarked. “ His 
regiment was ordered to India, and 
he sold out : climate don’t agree with 
his precious health, d'he Captain 
ain’t been here ever so long, not.''ince 
poor Mrs. L.’s time, before Miss P. 
came here : Captain Clarence and his 
sister had a tremendous quarrel 
together. He was up to all sorts of 
pranks, the Captain was. Not a 
good lot, by any means, 1 should say, 
Mr. Batchelor.” And here Bedford 
begins to laugh. “ Did you ever 
read, sir, a farce called ^ Eaising the 
Wind ’ ? — There ’s plenty of Jeremy 
Diddlers now. Captain Jeremy Did- 
dlers and Lady Jeremy Diddlers too. 

— Have you such a tiling as half a 
crown about you '? If you have, 
don’t invest it in some folks’ pockets, 

— that ’s all. Beg your pardon, sir, 
if I am bothering you with talking ! ” 

As long as I^was at Shiniblands 
and ready to partake of breakfast 
with my kind host and his children 
and their governess. Lady Baker had 
her own breakfast taken to her room. 
But when there were no visitors in the 
house she would come groaning out 
of her bedroom to be present at the 
morning meal ; and not uncommonly 
would give the little company anec- 
dotes of the departed saint, under 
whose invocation, as it were, we were 
assembled, and whose simpering effigy 
looked down upon us over her harp 
and from the wall. The eyes of the 
portrait followed you about, as por- 
traits’ eyes so painted will ; and those 
glances, as it seemed to me, still dom- 
ineered over Lovel, and made him 
quail as they had done in life. Yon- 
der, in the corner, was Cecilia’s harp, 
with its leathern cover. I likened the 
skin to that drum which the dying 
Zisca ordered should be made out of 
his hide to be beaten before the hosts 
of his people and inspire terror. 1 bus 
concevez, 1 did not say to Lovel at 
breakfast, as I sat before the ghostly 
musical instrument, “ My dear fellow, 
that skin of Cordovan leather belong- 
ing to your defunct Cecilia’s harp is 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


331 


like tlie hide which,” etc. ; but I con- 
fess at first I used to have a sort of 
crawJij sensation, as of a sickly genteel 
ghost flitting about the place, in an 
exceedingly peevish humor, trying to 
scold and command, and finding her 
defunct voice couhl n’t be heard, — 
trying to rcillume her extinguished 
leers and faded smiles and ogles, and 
finding no one admired or took note. 
In the gray of the gloaming, in the 
twilight corner where stands the 
shrouded companion of song, what is 
that white figure flickering round the 
silent harp ? Once, as we were as- 
sembled ill the room at afternoon tea, 
a bird, entering at the open window, 
perched on the instrument. Popham 
dashed at it. Lovel was deep in con- 
versation upon the wine duties with a 
member of Parliament he had brought 
down to dinner. Lady Baker, who 
was, if I may use the expression, 
“jawing” as usual, and telling one of 
her tremendous stories about the 
Lord Lieutenant to Mr. Bonnington, 
took no note of the incident. Eliza- 
beth did not seem to remark it : what 
was a bird on a harp to her but a 
sparrow perched on a bit of leather- 
casing ! All the ghosts in Putney 
churchyard might rattle all their 
bones, and would not frighten that 
stout spirit ! 

I was amused at a precaution which 
Bedford took, and somewhat alarmed 
at the distrust toward Lady Baker 
which he exhibited, when, one day on 
my return from town, — whither I 
had made an excursion of four or five 
hours, — I found my bedroom door 
locked, and Dick arrived with the 
key. “ He’s wrote to say he ’s com- 
ing this evening ; and if he had come 
when you was away. Lady B. was 
capable of turning your things out 
and putting his in, and taking her 
oath she believed you was going to 
leave. The long-bow.s Lady B. do 
pull are perfectly awful, Mr. B. ! So 
it was long-bow to long-bow, Mr, 
Batchelor ; and I said you had took 
the key in your pocket, not wish- 
ing to have your papers disturb- 


ed. She tried the lawn window, 
but I had bolted that, and the Captain 
will have the pink room after all, 
and must smoke up the chimney. I 
should have liked to see him, or you, 
or any one do it in poor Mrs. L.’s 
time, — I just should f ” 

During my visit to London I had 
chanced to meet my friend Captain 
Fitzb — die, who belongs to a dozen 
clubs and knows something of every 
man in London. “ Know any thing 
of Clarence Baker ? ” “ Of course I 

do, ” says Fitz; “and if you want 
any renseignement, my dear fellow, I 
have the honor to inform you that a 
blacker little sheep does not trot the 
London pav€. Wherever that inge- 
nious officer’s name is spoken, — at 
Tattersall’s, at his clubs, in his late 
regiments, in men’s society, in ladies’ 
society, in that expanding and most 
agreeable circle which you may call 
no society at all, — a chorus of male- 
dictions rises up at the mention of 
Baker. Know anything of Clarence 
Baker ! My dear fellow, enough to 
make your hair turn white, unless (as 
1 sometimes fondly imagine) nature 
has already performed that process, 
when of course I can’t pretend to act 
upon mere hair-dye.” (The whis- 
kers of the individual who addressed 
me, innocent, stared me in the face as 
he spoke, and were dyed of the most 
unblushing purple.) “Clarence Ba- 
ker, sir, is a young man who would 
have been invaluable in Sparta as a 
warning against drunkenness and an 
exemplar of it. He has helped the 
regimental surgeon to some most in- 
teresting experiments in delirium tre- 
mens. He is known, and not in the 
least trusted, in every billiard-room 
in Brighton, Canterbury, York, Shef- 
field, — on every pavement which has 
rung with the clink of dragoon boot- 
heels. By a wise system of revoking 
at whist he has lost games which 
have caused not only his partners, 
but his opponents and the whole club 
to admire him and to distrust him: 
long before and since he was of age 
he has written his eminent name to 


332 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


bills which have been dishonored, and 
has nobly -pleaded his minority as a 
reason for declinin'^ to pay. From 
the garrison towns where he has been 
quartered he has carried away not 
only the hearts of the milliners, but 
their gloves, haberdashery, and per- 
fumery. He has had controversies 
with Cornet Green regarding horse 
transactions ; disputed turf-accounts 
with Lieutenant Brown ; and betting 
and backgammon differences with 
Captain Black. From all that I 
have heard he is the worthy son of 
his admirable mother. And I bet 
you even on the four events, if you 
stay three days in a countiy-house 
with him, — which appears to be 
your present happy idea, — that he 
will quarrel with you, insult you, and 
apologize ; that he will intoxicate 
himself more than once; that he Avill 
offer to play cards with you, and not 
pay on losing (if be wins, I perhaps 
need not state what his conduct will 
be) ; and that he will try to borrow 
money from you, and most likely 
from your servant, before he goes 
away.’’ So saying, the sententious 
Fitz strutted up the steps of one of 
his many club haunts in Pall Mall, 
and left me forewarned, and I trust 
forearmed, against Captain Clarence 
and all his works. 

The adversary, when at length I 
came in sight of him, did not seem 
very formidable. I beheld a w'cakly 
little man with Chinese eyes, and 
pretty little feet and hands, whose pal- 
lid countenance told of Finishes and 
Casinos. His little chest and fingers 
were decorated with many jewels. A 
perfume of tobacco hung around him. 
His little mustache Avas twisted with 
an elaborate gummy curl. I perceived 
that the little hand which twirled the 
mustache shook wofully : and from 
the little chest there came a cough 
surprisingly loud and dismal. 

He was lying on a sofa as I entered, 
and the children of the house were 
playing round him. ‘‘ If you are 
our uncle, why did n’t you come to see 
us oftener ? ” asks Popham. 


How should I knoAV that you Avere 
such uncommonly nice children 1 ” 
asks the Captain. 

“We’re not nice to you,” says 
Popham. “ Why do you cough -so ? 
Mamma used to cough. And Avhy 
docs your hand shake so ? ” 

“ My hand shakes because I am ill : 
and I cough because I ’m ill. Your 
mother died of it, and I dare say I 
shall too.” 

“ I. hope you ’ll be good, and repent 
before you die, uncle, and I Avill lend 
you some nice books,” says Cecilia. 

“ 0, bother books ! ” cries Pop. 

“ And I hope you ’ll be good, Pop- 
ham,” and “ You hold your tongue. 
Miss,” and “ I shall,” and “ I sha’ n’t,” 
and “ You ’re another,” and “ I ’ll tell 
Miss Prior ” — “Go and tell, telltale ” 
_ ‘‘ Boo ” — “ Boo ” — “ Boo ” — 
“ Boo ” — and I don’t know Avhat 
more exclamations came tumultuous- 
ly and rapidly from these dear chil- 
dren, as their uncle lay before them, 
a handkerchief to his mouth, his little 
feet high raised on the sofa cushions. 

Captain Baker turned a little eye 
toward me, as I entered the room, but 
did not change his easy and elegant 
posture. When I came near to the 
sofa Avhere he reposed he was good 
enough to call out : — 

“ Glass of sherry ! ” 

“ It ’s Mr. Batchelor ; it is n’t Bed- 
ford, uncle,” says Cissy. 

“ Mr. Batchelor ain’t got any sherry 
in his pocket : have you, Mr. Batche- 
lor ? You ain’t like old Mrs. Prior, 
always pocketing things, are you ? ” 
cries Pop, and falls a-laughing at the 
ludicrous idea of my being mistaken 
for Bedford. 

“ Beg your pardon. How should I 
knoAv, you know 1 ” drawls the in- 
valid on the sofa. “ Everybody ’s the 
same noAv, you see.” 

“ Sir ! ” says I, and “ Sir” Avas all 
I could say. The fact is, I could 
baA^e replied Avith something remark- 
ably neat and cutting, Avhich Avould 
have transfixed the languid little 
jackanapes Avho dared to mistake mo 
for a footman ; but, you see, I only 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


333 


thought of my repartee some eight 
hours after-ward when I Avas lying in 
bed, and I am sorry to own that a 
great number of my best hon mots 
have been made in that Ava)^ vSo, as 
I had not the pungent remark ready 
when wanted, I canT say I said it to 
Captain Baker, but I dare say I turn- 
ed very red, and said “ Sir ! ” and — 
and, in fact, that was all. 

“ You Avere goin’ to say some- 
thin’ 1 ” asked the Captain, alfably. ' 

“ You knoAV my friend, Mr. Fitz- 
boodle, I believe 1 ” said I ; the fact 
is, I really did not knoAV Avhat to say. 

“ Some mistake — think not.” 

“He is a member of the Flag 
Club,” I remarked, looking my young 
fellow hard in the face. 

“ I ain’t. There ’s a set of cabs in 
that club that Avill say anything.” 

“ You may not know him, sir, but 
he seemed to knoAV you very Avell. 
Arc Ave to have any tea, children ? ” 
I say, flinging myself doAvn on an 
easy-chair, taking up a magazine, and 
adopting an easy attitude, though I 
dare say my face Avas as red as a 
turkey-cock’s, and I was boiling over 
with rage. 

As Ave had a A^ery good breakfast 
and a profuse luncheon at Shrub- 
lands, of course aa'c could not support 
nature till dinner-time without a five- 
o’clock tea; and this Avas the meal 
for Avhich I pretended to ask. Bed- 
ford, Avith his silver kettle and his 
buttony satellite, presently brought in 
this refection, and of course the chil- 
dren bawled out to him, 

“Bedford — Bedford! uncle mis- 
took Mr. Batchelor for you.” 

“I could not be mistaken for a 
more honest man, Fop,” said I. 
And the bearer of the tea-urn gaA-e 
me a look of gratitude and kindness 
which, I own, Avent far to restore my 
ruffled equanimity. 

“ Since you are the butler, Avill you 
get me a glass of sherry and a bis- 
cuit?” says the Captain. And Bed- 
ford, retiring, returned presently Avith 
the Avine. 

The young gentleman’s hand shook 


so, that, in order to drink his wine, he 
had to surprise it, as it Avere, and 
seize it Avith his mouth Avhen a shake 
brought the glass near his lips. He 
drained the Avine, and held out his 
hand for another glass. The hand 
Avas steadier now. 

“You the man who Avas here be- 
fore ? ” asks the Captain. 

“ Six years ago, Avhen you Avere 
here, sir,” says the butler. 

“ What ! I ain’t changed, I sup- 
pose ? ” 

“ Yes, you are, sir.” 

“ Then hoAV the dooce do you re- 
member me ? ” 

“ You forgot to pay me some mon- 
ey you borroAved of me, — one pound 
fiA^e, sir,” — says Bedford, Avhose eyes 
slyly turned in my direction. 

And here, according to her Avont 
at this meal, the dark-robed Miss 
Prior entered the room. She AA^as 
coming forward with her ordinarily 
erect attitude and firm step, but paus- 
ed in her Avalk an instant, and Avhen 
she came to us, I thought, looked re- 
markably pale. She made a slight 
courtesy, and it must be confessed 
that Captain Baker rose up from his 
sofa for a moment when she appear- 
ed. She then sat doAvn, Avith her back 
tOAvard him, turning tOAvard herself 
the table and its tea-apparatus. 

At this board my Lady Baker found 
us assembled Avhen she returned from 
her afternoon drive. She Acav to her 
darling reprobate of a son. She took 
his hand, she smoothed back his hair 
from his damp forehead. “My dar- 
ling child,” cries this fond mother, 
“ what a pulse you have got 1 ” 

“ I suppose because I ’ve been drink- 
ing,” says the prodigal. 

“ Why did n’t you come out driving 
with me? The afternoon Avas loA^e- 

“ To paA’’ visits at Eichmond ? Not 
as I knoAVs on, ma’am,” says the in- 
valid. “ CoiiA^ersation Avith elderly la- 
dies about poodles, Bible-societies, that 
kind of thing ? It must be a doocid 
lovely afternoon that would make me 
like that sort of game.” And here 


334 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


comes a fit of cou'^liing, over which 
mamma ejaculates her sympathy. 

“ Kick — kick — killin’ myself! ” 
pasps out the Captain ; “ know I am. 
No man can lead my life and stand it. 
Dyin’ by inches ! Dyin’ by whole 
yards, by Jo — ho — hove, I am ! ” 
indeed, he was as bad in liealth as in 
morals, this graceless captain. 

“ That man of Lovel’s seems a 

d insolent beggar,” he presently 

and ingenuously remarks. 

“ O uncle, you must n’t say those 
words ! ” cries niece Cissy. 

“ He ’s a man, and may say what 
he likes ; and so will I when I ’m a 
man. Yes, and I’ll say it now, too, 
if I like,” cries Master Popham. 

“ Not to give me pain, Popham 1 
Will you ? ” asks the governess. 

On which the boy says, “ Well, who 
wants to hurt you. Miss Prior? ” 

And our colloquy ends by the ar- 
rival of the man of the house from the 
city. 

What I have admired in some dear 
women is their capacity for quarrel- 
ling and for reconciliation. As I saw 
Lady Baker hanging round her son’s 
neck, and fondling his scanty ringlets, 
I remembered the awful stories with 
which in former days she used to 
entertain us regarding this reprobate. 
Her heart was pin-cushioned with his 
filial crimes. Under her chestnut 
front her Ladyship’s real head of hair 
was gray in consequence of his iniqui- 
ties. His precocious appetite had 
devoured the greater part of her 
jointure. He had treated her many 
dangerous illnesses with indifference : 
had been the Avorst son, the worst 
brother, the most ill-conducted school- 
boy, the most immoral young man, — 
the terror of households, the Lovelace 
of garrison towns, the pervertcr of 
young officers ; in fact. Lady Baker 
did not know how she supported ex- 
istence at all under the agony occa- 
sioned by his crimes, and it was only 
from the possession of a more than 
ordinarily strong sense of religion that 
she was enabled to bear her burden. 

The Captain himself explained these 


alternating maternal caresses and 
quarrels in his easy way. 

“ Saw how the old lady kissed and 
fondled me ? ” saA’S he to his brothcr- 
in-hiAv. “ Quite refreshin’, ain’t it 1 
Hang me, I thought she Avas goin’ to 
send me a bit of sAveet-bread off her 
OAvn plate. Came up to my room 
last night, AA^anted to tuck me up in 
bed, and abused my brother to me for 
an hour. You see, Avhen I ’m in 
favor, she ahvays abuses Level ; 
Avhen he ’s in favor she abuses me to 
him. And my sister-in-laAv, did n’t 
she give it my sister-in-laAv ! Oh ! 
I ’ll trouble you ! And poor Cecilia, 
— Avhy hang me, Mr. Batchelor, she 
used to go on — this bottle ’s corked, 
I ’m hanged if it is n’t — to go on 
about Cecilia, and call her .... 
Hullo ! ” 

Here he Avas intennpted by our 
host, who said sternly, — 

“ Will you please to forget those 
quarrels, or not mention them here ? 
Will you have more Avine, Batch- 
elor ? ” 

And Lovel rises, and haughtily 
stalks out of the room. To do Lovel 
justice, he had a great contempt and 
dislike for his young brother-m-laA\% 
Avhich, with his best magnanimity, 
he could not at all times conceal. 

So our host stalks toAvard the 
draAving-room, leaving Captain Clar- 
ence sipping Avine. 

“ Don’t go too,” says the Captain. 
“ He ’s a confounded rum felloAv, my 
brother-in-laAv is. He ’s a confounded 
ill-conditioned fellow, too. They al- 
Avays are, you knoAv, these tradesmen 
fellows, these half-bred ’uns. I used 
to tell my sister so ; but she would 
haA'e him, because he had such lots of 
money, you knoAv. And she thrcAV 
over a fellar she was very fond of ; 
and I told her she ’d regret it. I told 
Lady B. she ’d regret it. It was all 
Lady B.’s doing. She made Cissy 
throAv the fellar oA^er. He Avas a bad 
match, certainly, Tom Mountain AA'as ; 
and not a clcA^er felloAV, you knoAv, or 
that sort of thing ; but at any rate, 
he Avas a gentleman, and better than 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


835 


a confounded sugar-baking beggar 
I out Katclitf Highway.” 

“ You seem to find that claret very 
good ! ” I remark, speaking, I may 
say, Socratically, to my young friend, 
who had been swallowing bumper 
after bumper. 

“ Claret good ! Yes, doosid good ! ” 

“ Well, you see our confounded 
sugar-baker gives you his best.” 

“ And why should n’t he, hang 
him ? Why, the fellow chokes with 
money. What does it matter to him 
how much he spends'? You ’re a 
poor man, I dare say. You don’t 
look as if you were overflush of 
money. Weil, if you stood a good 
dinner, it Avould be all right — I mean 
it would show — you understand me, 
you know. But a sugar-baker Avith 
ten thousand a year, Avhat does it 
matter to him, bottle of claret more 
— less?” 

“ Let us go in to the ladies,” I say. 

“ Go in to mother ! I don’t Avant 
to go in to my mother,” cried out the 
artless youth. “ And I don’t AA^ant to 
go in to the sugar-baker, hang him ! 
and I don’t Avant to go in to the chil- 
dren ; and I ’d rather have a glass of 
brandy-and-Avater Avith you, old boy. 
Here, you ! What ’s your name ? 
Bedford ! I owe you five-and-tAventy 
shillings, do I, old Bedford? Give 
us a good glass of Schnaps, and I ’ll 
pay you ! Look here, Batchelor. I 
hate that sugar-baker. Tavo years 
ago I drew a bill on him, and he 
would n’t pay it, — perhaps he Avould 
haA'e paid it, but my sister Avould n’t 
let him. And, I say, shall we go and 
have a cigar in your room? My 
mother ’s been abusing you to me like 
fun this morning. She abuses every- 
body. She used to abuse Cissy. 
Cissy used to abuse her, — used to 
fight like tAVO cats . . . .” 

And if I narrate this conA^ersation, 
dear Spartan youth ! if I shoAV thee 
this Helot maundering in his cups, it 
is that from his odious example thou 
mayest learn to be moderate in the 
use* of thine OAvn. Has the enemy 
Avho has entered thy mouth eA'er stolen 


aAvay thy brains? Has wine ever 
caused thee to blab secrets ; to utter 
egotisms and follies ? BcAvare of it. 
Has it cA'er been thy friend at the end 
of the hard day’s Avork, the cheery 
companion of thy companions, the 
promoter of harmony, kindness, harm- 
less social pleasure ? Be thankful for 
it. Two years since, Avhen the comet 
Avas blazing in the autumnal sky, I 
stood on the chateau steps of a great 
claret proprietor. “ Boirai-je da ton 
vin, O comete?” I said, addressing 
the luminary Avith the flaming tail. 
Shall those generous bunches Avhich 
you ripen yield their juices for me 
morituro ? It Avas a solemn thought. 
Ah ! my dear brethren ! who knoAV’s 
tlie Order of the Fates ? AVhen shall 
Ave pass the Gloomy Gates ? Which 
of us goes, Av’hich of us Avaits to drink 
those fiimous Fifty-eights? A ser- 
mon, upon my word ! And pray Avhy 
not a little homily on an autumn eve 
over a purple cluster? ... If that 
rickety boy had only drunk claret I 
Avarrant you his tongue Avould not 
have blabbed, his hand Avould not 
have shaken, his Avretched little brain 
and body would not have reeled Avith 
fever. 

“’Gad,” said he next day to me, 
“ cut again last night. Have an idea 
that I abused Lovel. When I have a 
little Avine on board ahvays speak my 
mind, don’t you knoAV ? Last time I 
Avas here in my poor sister’s time, said 
somethin’ to her, don’t quite know 
Avhat it Avas, somethin’ confoundedly 
true and unpleasant I dare say. 1 
think it Avas about a felloAV she used 
to go on with before she married the 
sugar-baker. And I got orders to 
quit, by JoA^e, sir, — neck and crop, 
sir, and no mistake ! And Ave gave 
it one another over the stairs. O my ! 
AA'e did pitch in ! — And that aa'us the 
last time I ever saAv Cecilia, — giA^e 
you my Avord. A doosid unforgiving 
Avoman my poor sister Avas, and be- 
tAveen you and me, Batchelor, as great 
a flirt as e\'cr threw a fellar over. 
You should have heard her and my 
Lady B. go on, that’s all! — Well, 


33G 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


mamma, are you going out for a drive 
in the coachy-poachy ? — Not as I 
knows on, thank you, as I before liad 
the honor to observe. Mr. Batchelor 
and me are going to play a little 
game at billiards.” We did, and I 
won ; and from that day to this have 
never been paid my little winnings. 

On the day after the doughty Cap- 
tain’s arrival Miss Prior, in whose 
face I had remarked a great expression 
of gloom and care, neither made her 
appearance at breakfist nor at the 
children’s dinner. “ Miss Prior was 
a little unw'ell,” Lady Baker said, 
with an air of most perfect satis- 
faction. “Mr. Drencher will come 
to see her this afternoon, and prescribe 
for her, I dare say,” adds her Lady- 
ship, nodding and winking a roguish 
eye at me. I was at a loss to under- 
stand what was the point of humor 
which amused Lady B. until she 
herself explained it. 

“ My good sir,” she said, “ I think 
Miss Prior is not at all averse to being 
ill.” And the nods recommenced. 

“As how? ” I ask. 

“ To being ill, or at least to calling 
in the medical man.” 

“ Attachment between governess 
and Sawbones I make bold for to pre- 
sume ? ” says the Captain. 

“Precisely, Clarence, — a very fit- 
ting match. I saAV the affair even 
before Miss Prior owned it, — that is 
to say, she has not denied it. She 
says slie can’t afford to marry, that 
she has children enough at home in 
her brothers and sisters. She is a 
well-principled young woman, and 
does credit, Mr. Batchelor, to your 
recommendation, and the education 
she has received from her uncle, 
the Master at St. Boniface.” 

“ Cissy to school ; Pop to Eton ; 
and Miss Whatdyoucall to grind 
"the pestle in Sawbones’ back-shop : I 
see!” says Captain Clarence. “He 
seems a low, vulgar blackguard, that 
Sawbones.” 

“ Of course, my love ; what can 
you expect from that sort of person ? ” 
asks mamma, whose own father was 


a small attorney in a small Irish 
town. 

“ I wish I had his confounded good 
health,” cries Clarence, coughing. 

“ My poor darling ! ” says mamma. 

I said nothing. And so Elizabeth 
Avas engaged to that great, broad- 
shouldered, red-Avhiskered, young sur- 
geon with the huge appetite and the 
dubious /i’s ! Well, why not ? What 
was it to me? Why shouldn’t she 
marry him? Was he not an honest 
man and a fitting match for her? 
Yes. Very good. Only if I do love 
a bird or flower to glad me with its 
dark blue eye, it is the first to fade 
away. If I have a partiality for a 
young gazelle, it is the first to — 
pshaw ! What have I to do with this 
namby-pamby? Can the heart that 
has truly loved ever forget, and 
does n’t it as truly love on to the — 
stuff! I am past the age of such fol- 
lies. I might have made a woman 
happy : I think I should. But the 
fugacious years have lapsed, my Post- 
humus ! My waist is now a good bit 
wider than my chest, and it is decreed 
that I shall be alone ! 

My tone, then, when next I saw 
Elizabeth, was sorrowful — not an- 
gry. Drencher, the young doctor, 
came punctually enough, you may be 
sure, to look after his patient. Little 
Pinhorn, the children’s maid, led the 
young practitioner smiling toward the 
school-room regions. His creaking 
high-lows sprang swiftly up the stairs. 
I hajipened to be in the hall, and sur- 
veyed him with a grim pleasure. 
“Now he is in the school-room,” I 
thought. “Now he is taking her 
hand — it is very Avhite — and feeling 
her pulse. And so on, and so on. 
Surely, surely Pinhorn remains in the 
room ? ” I am sitting on a hall-table 
as I muse plaintively on these things, 
and gaze up the stairs by which the 
Hakeem (great, carroty - wdi is kered 
cad !) has passed into the sacred pre- 
cincts of the harem. As I gaze up 
the stair another door opens into the 
hall ; a scowling face peeps through 
that door and looks up the stair too. 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


337 


’T is Bedford, who has slid out of his 
pantry and watches the doctor. And 
thou, too, iny poor Bedford ! Oh ! the 
whole world throbs with vain heart- 
pan,^s, and tosses and heaves with 
i Ionising, unfulfilled desires ! All 
j night, and all over the world, bitter 
I tears are dropping as regular as the 
] dew, and cruel memories are haunt- 
- ing the pillow. Close my hot eyes, 
kind Sleep ! Do not visit it, dear de- 
i lusive images out of the Past ! Often 
j your figure shimmers through my 
1 dreams, Glorvina. Not as you are 
j now, the stout mother of many chil- 
j dren, — you always had an alarming 
j likeness to your own mother, Glor- 
i vina, — but as you were — slim, black- 
j haired, blue-eyed — when your carna- 
I tion lips warbled the Vale of Avoca, 

\ or the Anfjels' Widsper. “ What ! ” I 
j say then, looking up the stair, “ am I 
: absolutely growing jealous of yon 
I apothecary ? — O fool ! ” And at 
this juncture out peers Bedford’s face 
i from the pantry, and I see he is jeal- 
! ous too. I tie my shoe as I sit on the 
j table ; I don’t affect to notice Bedford 
! in the least (who, in fact, pops his 
^ own head back again as soon as he 
I secs mine). I take my wide-awake 
I from the peg, set it on one side my 
j head, and strut whistling out of the 
I hall door. I stretch over Putney 
I Heath, and my spirit resumes its 
I trampiillity. 

[ I sometimes keep a little journal of 
I my proceedings, and on referring to 
I its pages the scene rises before me 
pretty clearly to which the brief notes 
allude. On this day I find noted: 

Fridatf, Juhj 14. — B. came down to- 
day. Seems to require a great deed of 
attendance from Dr. — Row between 
dowagers after dinner.’^ “ B.,” I need 
not remark, is Bessy. “Dr.,” of 
course, you know. “ Row between 
dowagers ” means a battle royal be- 
tween Mrs. Bonnington and Lady 
Baker, such as not unfrequently 
raged under the kindly Level’s roof. 

Lady Baker’s gigantic menial Bulk- 
eley condescended to wait at the 
family dinner at Shrublands, when 
15 


perforce he had to put himself under 
Mr. Bedford’s orders. Bedford would 
gladly have dispensed with the Lon- 
don footman, over whose calves, he 
said, he and his boy were always 
tumbling; but Lady Baker’s dignity 
would not allow her to part from lieV 
own man ; and her good-natured son- 
in-law allowed her, and indeed almost 
all other persons, to have their own 
way. I have reason to fear Mr. Bulk- 
eley’s morals were loose. Mrs. Bon- 
nington had a special horror of him ; 
his behavior in the village public- 
houses, where his powder and plush 
were forever visible, — his freedom of 
behavior and conversation before the 
good lady’s nurse and parlor-maids, 
— provoked her anger and suspicion. 
More than once she whispered to me 
her loathing of this flour-besprinkled 
monster; and as much as such a 
gentle creature could, she showed her 
dislike to him by her behavior. The 
flunkey’s solemn equanimity was not 
to be disturbed by any such feeble in- 
dications of displeasure. From his 
owdered height he looked down upon 
Irs. Bonnington, and her esteem or 
her dislike was beneath him. 

Now on this Friday night the 14th, 
Captain Clarence had gone to pass 
the day in town, and our Bessy made 
her appcarence again, the doctor’s 
prescriptions having, I suppose, agreed 
with her. Mr. Bulkeley, who was 
handing coffee to the ladies, chose to 
offer none to Miss Prior, and I was 
amused when I saw Bedford’s heel 
scrunch down on the flunkey’s right 
foot, as he pointed toward the govern- 
ess. -The oaths which Bulkeley had 
to devour in silence must have been 
frightful. To do the gallant fellow 
justice, I think he would have died 
rather than speak before company in 
a drawing-room. He limped up and 
offered the refreshment to the young 
lady, who bowed and declined it. 

“ Frederick,” Mrs. Bonnington be- 
gins, when the coffee-ceremony is 
over, “ now the servants are gone, I 
must scold you about the waste at 
your table, my dear. What was the 
¥ 


338 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


need of opening that great bottle of 
Champagne ? Lady Baker only takes 
two glasses. Mr. Batchelor doesn’t 
touch it.” (No, thank you, my dear 
Mrs. Bonnington : too old a stager.) 
“ Why not have a little bottle instead 
of that great, large, immense one”? 
Bedford is a teetotaler. I supjjose it 
is that London footman who likes it.” 

“ My dear mother, I have n’t really 
ascertained his tastes,” says Lovel. 

“ Then why not tell Bedford to 
open a pint, dear I ” pursues mamma. 

“ O, Bedford — Bedford, we must 
not mention him, Mrs. Bonnington ! ” 
cries Lady Baker. “ Bedford is fault- 
less. Bedford has the keys of every- 
thing. Bedford is not to be con- 
trolled in anything. Bedford is to be 
at liberty to be rude to my servant.” 

“ Bedford was admirably kind in 
his attendance on your daughter, La- 
dy Baker,” says Lovel, his brow dark- 
ening : “ and as for your man, I should 
think he was big enough to protect 
himself from any rudeness of jjoor 
Dick!” The good fellow bad been 
angry for one moment, at the next he 
was all for peace and conciliation. 

Lady Baker puts on her superfine 
air. With that air she had often 
awe-stricken good, simple Mrs. Bon- 
nington ; and she loved to use it 
whenever city folks or humble people 
were present. You see, she thought 
herself your superior and mine : as 
de par le monde there are many artless 
Lady Bakers who do . “ My dear 

Trederick!” says Lady B. then, put- 
ting on her best May Fair manner, 
“ excuse me for saying, but you don’t 
know the — the class of servants to 
which Bulkelej'- belongs. I bad him 
as a great favor from Lord Toddle- 
by’s. That — that class of servant is 
not generally accustomed to go out 
single.” 

“ Unless they are two behind a car- 
riage-perch they pine away, I sup- 
pose,” remarks Mr. Lovel, “as one 
love-bird does without his mate.” 

“ No doubt — no doubt,” says Lady 
B., who does not in the least under- 
stand him ; “ I only say you are not 


accustomed here — in this kind of es- 
tablishment, you understand — to 
that class of — ” 

But here Mrs. Bonnington could 
contain her wrath no more. “ Lady 
Baker!” cries that injured mother, 
“ is my son’s establishment not good 
enough lor any powdered wretch in 
England ? Is the house of a British 
merchant — ” 

“ My dear creature — my dear crea- 
ture ! ” interposes her Ladyship, “it is 
the house of a British merchant, and 
a most comfortable house, too.” 

“ Yes, as you find it,” remarks 
mamma. 

“ Yes, as I find it, when I come to 
take care of that departed angel’s chil- 
dren, Mrs. Bonnington!” (Lady B. 
here indicates the Cecilian effigy) — 
“of that dear seraph’s orphans, Mrs. 
Bonnington ! You cannot. You have 
other duties — other children — a 
husband, whom you have left at home 
in delicate health, and who — ” 

“ Lady Baker ! ” exclaims Mrs. 
Bonnington, “ no one shall say I 
don’t take care of my dear hus- 
band ! ” 

“ My dear Lady Baker ! — my dear, 
dear mother ! ” cries Lovel, eploie, 
and whimpers aside to me, “ They 
spar in this way every night, when 
we ’re alone. It ’s too*^ bad, ain’t it, 
Batch?” 

“I say you do take care of Mr. 
Bonnington,” Baker blandly resumes 
(she has hit Mrs. Bonnington on the 
raw place, and smilingly proceeds to 
thong again): “I say you do take 
care of your husband, my dear crea- 
ture, and that is why you can’t at- 
tend to Frederick ! And as he is of a 
very easy temper — except sometimes 
with his poor Cecilia’s mother — he 
allows all his tradesmen to cheat him, 
all his servants to cheat him, Bedford 
to be rude to everybody ; and if to 
me, why not to my servant Bulkeley, 
Avith whom Lord Toddlesby’s groom 
of the chambers gave me the very 
highest character ? ” 

Mrs. Bonnington, in a great flurry, 
broke in by saying she was surprised 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


339 


to hear that noblemen had grooms in 
their chambers : and she thought they 
were much better in the stables : and 
when they dined with Captain Huff, 
you know, Frederick, las man always 
brought such a dreadful smell of the 
stable in with him, that — Here she 
paused. Baker’s eye was on her; 
and that dowager was grinning a 
cruel triumph. 

“ He ! he ! You mistake, my good 
Mrs. Bonnington ! ” says her Lady- 
ship. “ Your poor mother mistakes, 
my dear Frederick. You have lived 
in a quiet and most respectable sphere, 
but not, you understand, not — ” 

“ Xot what, pray, Lady Baker ? 
We have lived in this neighborhood 
twenty years : in my late husband’s 
time, when we saw a (jreat di al of com- 
pany, and this dear Frederick was a 
boy at Westminster School. And 
we have paid for everything we have 
had for twenty years ; and we have 
not owed a penny to any tradesman. 
And we may not have had powdered 
footmen, si.K feet high, impertinent 
beasts, who were rude to all the maids 
in the place. Don’t — I will speak, 
Frederick ! But servants who loved 
us, and who were paid their wages, and 
who — o — ho — ho — ho ! ” 

Wipe your eyes, dear friends ! out 
with all your pocket-handkerchiefs. 
I protest I cannot bear to see a wo- 
man in distress. Of course Fred Lev- 
el runs to console his dear old moth- 
er, and vows Lady Baker meant no 
harm. 

“ Meant harm ! My dear Freder- 
ick, what harm can I mean ? I only 
said your poor mother did not seem 
to know what a groom of the cham- 
bers was ! How should she ? ” 

“ Come, come,’' says Frederick, 
“ enough of this ! Miss Prior, will 
you be so kind as to give us a little 
music ? ” 

Miss Prior was playing Beethoven 
at the piano, very solemnly and fine- 
ly, when our Black Sheep returned to 
this quiet fold, and, I am sorry to say, 
in a very riotous condition. The bril- 
liancy of his eye, the purple flush on 


his nose, the unsteady gait, and un- 
certain tone of voice, told tales of 
Captain Clarence, who stumbled over 
more than one chair befoz-e he found 
a seat near me. 

“ Quite right, old boy,” says he, 
winking at me. “Cut again, — doo- 
shid good fellosh. Better than being 
along with you shtoopid-old-fogish.” 
And he began to warble wild “E'ol- 
de-rol-lolls ” in an insane accompani- 
ment to the music. 

“ By Heavens, this is too bad !” 
growls Lovel. “ Lady Baker, let 
your big man carry your son to bed. 
Thank you. Miss Prior ! ” 

At a final yell, which the unlucky 
young scapegrace gave, Elizabeth 
stopped, and rose from the piano, 
looking very pale. She made her 
courtesy, and was departing when the 
wretched young Captain sprang up, 
looked at her, and sank hack on the 
sofa with another wild laugh. Bessy 
fled away scared, and white as a 
sheet. 

“ Take the brute to bed ! ” 
roars the master of the house, in 
great Avrath. And scapegrace Avas 
conducted to his apartment, Avhither 
he Avent laughing Avildly, and calling 
out,“ Come on, old "sh-sh-shugar- 
baker ! ” 

The morning after this fine exhi- 
bition, Captain Clarence Baker’s 
mamma announced to xis that her 
poor dear suffering boy Avas too ill to 
come to breakfast, and I believe he 
prescribed for himself deviled drum- 
stick and soda-water, of Avhich he 
partook in his bedroom. Lovel, sel- 
dom angry, Avas violently Avroth Avith 
his brother-in-law ; and, almost al- 
Avays polite, was at breakfast scarcely 
ciAul to Lady Baker. I am bound to 
say that female abused her position. 
She appealed to Cecilia’s picture a 
great deal too much during the course 
of breakfast. She hinted, she sighed, 
she Avaggled her bead at me, and 
spoke about “ that angel ” in the most 
tragic manner. Angel is all very 
Avell : but your angel brought in h 
tout propos ; your departed blessing 


S40 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


called ont of her prave ever so many 
times a day ; when grandmamma 
wants to carry a point of her own ; 
when the children are naughty or 
noisy ; when papa betrays a dicker- 
ing inclination to dine at his club, or 
to bring home a bachelor friend or 
two to Shrublands ; — 1 say your angel 
always dragged in by the wings into 
the ( onversation loses her effect. No 
man’s heart put on wider crape than 
Lovcl’s at Cecilia’s loss. Considering 
the circumstances, his grief was most 
creditable to him : but at breakfast, 
at lunch, about Bulkeley the footman, 
about the barouche or the phaeton or 
any trumpery domestic perplexity, to 
have a iJeus intersit was too much. 
And I observed, with some inward 
satisfaction, that when Baker uttered 
her pompous funereal phrases, rolled 
her eyes up to the ceiling, and ap- 
pealed to that quarter, the children 
ate their jam and quarrelled and 
kicked their little shins under the 
table, Lovel read his paper and looked 
at his watch to sec if it was omnibus 
time ; and Bessy made the tea, quite 
undisturbed by the old lady’s tragical 
prattle. 

"When Baker described her son’s 
fearful cough and dreadfully feverish 
state, I said, “ Surely, Lady Baker, 
Mr. Drencher had better be sent for ” ; 
and I suppose I uttered the disgust- 
ing dissyllabic Drencher with a fine 
sarcastic accent ; for once, just once, 
Bessy’s gray eyes rose through the 
spectacles and met mine with a glance 
of unutterable sadness, then calmly 
settled down on to the slop-basin 
again, or the urn in which her pale 
features, of course, were odiously dis- 
torterl. 

“You will not bring anybody home 
to dinner, Frederick, in my poor boy’s 
state ” asks Lady B. 

“He may stay in his bedroom, I 
suppose 1 ” replies Lovel. 

“ He is Cecilia’s brother, Freder- 
ick ! ’’ cries the lady. 

“ Conf ” Lovel was beginning. 

What was he about to say ? 

“If you are going to confound 


3 'our angel in heaven I have nothing 1 
to say, sir ! ” cries the mother of Clar- 1 
ence. 

“ Parblett, madameP* cried Lovel, 
in French ; “ if he were not my wife’s > 
brother do you think I would let himi 
stay here?” i 

Parly Francais^ Otii, oiii, ov.il” 
cries Pop. “ I know Avhat Pa means ! ” ' 
“Ami so do / know. And I shall 
lend Uncle Clarence some books 
which Mr, Bonnington gave me, 
and — ” 

“ Hold your tongue all ! ” shouts 
Lovel, with a stamp of his foot, 

“ You will, perhaps, have the great 
kindness to allow me the use of your 
carriage, or, at least, to wait here un- 
til my 1 oor suffering bo}'’ can be 
moved, Mr. Lovel 1 ” says Lady B., 
with the airs of a martyr, 

Lovel rang the bell. “ The carriage 
for Lady Baker, at her Ladyship’s 
hour, Bedford : and the cart for her 
luggage. Her Ladyship and Captain 
Baker are going away.” 

“I have lost one child, Mr. Lovel, 
whom some people seem to forget. I 
am not going to murder another ! I 
will not leave this house, sir, unless 
'you drive me from it ly force, until the 
medical man has seen my boy!” 
And here she and sorrow sat down 
again. She was always giving warn- 
ing. She was always fitting the hal- 
ter and traversing the cart, was Lady 
B., lut she forever declined to drop 
the handkerchief and have the busi- 
ness over. I saw by a little shrug in 
Bessy’s shoulders what the govern- 
ess’s views were of the matter ; and, 
in a word. Lady B. no more went 
away on this day than she had done 
on forty previous days when she an- 
nounced her intention of going. She 
would accept benefits, you see, hut 
then she insulted her benefactors, 
and so squared accounts. 

That great, healtln’’, florid, scarlet- 
whiskered, medical wretch came at 
about twelve, saw Mr. Baker, and 
prescribed for him : and of course he 
must have a few words with Miss 
Prior, and inquire into the state of 




LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


341 


lie\: health Just as on the previous 
occasion, I happened to be in the hall 
when Drencher went up stairs ; Bed- 
ford happened to be looking out of 
his pantry door; I burst into a yell 
of laughter when I saw Dick’s livid 
, face, — the sight somehow suited my 
i savage soul. 

j No sooner was Medicus gone when 
I Bessy, grave and pale, in bonnet and ! 
j spectacles, came sliding down stairs. 

I 1 do not mean down the banister, 
i which was Pop’s favorite method' of 
descent, but slim, tall, noiseless, in a 
nnnlike calm, she swept down the 
! steps. Of course I followed her. 
i And there was Master Bedford’s nose 
peeping through the pantry door at us 
as we went out with the children. 
Pray, what business of his was it to 
be always watching anybody who 
walked with Miss Prior 

“ So, Bessy,” I said, “ what report 
does Mr. — hem! — Mr. Drencher — 
give of the interesting invalid ? ” 

“ O, the most horrid ! He says 
that Captain Baker has several times 
hail a dreadful disease brought on by 
drinking, and that he is mad when ho 
has it. He has delusions, sees demons, 
when he is in this state, — wants to 
be watched.” 

“ Drencher tells you everything.” 
She says, meekly : “ He attends 

us when we are ill.” 

I remark, Avith fine irony : “ He 

attends the Avhole family : he is al- 
ways coming to Shrublands ! ” 

“ He comes very often,” Miss Prior 
says, gravely. 

And do you mean to say, Bessy,” 

I cry, madly cutting off two or three 
heads of yellow broom Avith my stick, 
— “ do you mean to say a fellow like 
that, Avho drops his h's about the 
room, is a AA-^elcome visitor ? ” 

“ I should be very ungrateful if ho 
AA^ere not AA^elcorae, Mr. Batchelor,” 
says Miss Prior. “ And call me by 
my surname, please, — and he has 
taken care of all my family, — and — ” 

“ And of course, of course, of 
course. Miss Prior ! ” say I, brutally ;• 
“ and this is the Avay the world Avags ; : 


and this is the way Ave are ill and 
are cured ; and Ave are grateful to the 
doctor that cures us ! ” 

She nods her grave head. “You 
used to bo kinder to me once, Mr. 
Batchelor, in old days, — in your — 
in my time of trouble ! Yes, my 
dear, that is a beautiful bit of broom ! 
O, Avhat a fine butterfly ! ” ( Ce- 

! cilia scours the plain after the but* 
terfly.) “You used to be kinder to 
me once, — Avhen Ave were both un- 
happy.” 

“ I Avas unhappy,” I say, “ but I 
survived. I Avas ill, but I am now 
pretty Avell, thank you. I Avas jilted 
by a false, heartless woman. Do you 
suppose there are no other heartless 
Avomcn in the Avorld 1 ” And I am 
confident, if Bessy’s breast had not 
l)een steel, the daggers Avhich darted 
out from my eyes Avould have bored 
frightful stabs in it. 

But she shook her head, and looked 
at me so sadly that my eye-daggers 
tumbled down to the ground at once ; 
for you see, though I am a jealous 
Turk, I am a very easily appeased 
jealous Turk ; and if I had been 
Bluebeard, and my Avife, just as I Avas 
going to decapitate her, had lifted up 
her head from the block and cried a 
little, I should have dropped my scimi- 
tar, and said, “ Come, come, Fatima, 
never mind for the present about that 
key and closet business, and I ’ll chop 
your head off some other morning.” 
I say Bessy disarmed me. Pooh ! I 
say. Women Avill make a fool of me 
to the end. Ah ! ye gracious Fates ! 
Cut my thread of life ere it grow too 
long. Suppose I Avere to live till 
seventy, and some little Avrctch of a 
Avoman Avere to set her cap at me 7 
She would catch me, — I knoAv she 
Avould. All the males of our family 
have been spooney and soft, to a de- 
gree perfectly ludicrous and despica- 
ble to contemplate — Well, Bessy 
Prior, putting a hand out, looked at 
me, and said, — 

“ You are the oldest and best friend 
I have CA'er had, Mr. Batchelor, — * 
the only friend.” 


342 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


“ Am I, Elizabeth 1 ” I gasp, with 
a beating heart. 

“ Cissy is running back with a but- 
terfly.” (Our hands unlock.) “Don’t 
you see the difficulties of my position ? 
Don’t you know that ladies are often 
jealous of governesses; and that 
unless — unless they imagine I was — 
I was favorable to Mr. Drencher, who 
is very good and kind — the ladies at 
Shrublands might not like my re- 
maining alone in the house with — 
with — you understand?” A mo- 
ment the eyes look over the specta- 
cles : at the next, the meek bonnet 
bows down toward the ground. 

I wonder did she hear the bump — 
bumping of my heart ? O heart ! — 
0 wounded heart ! did I ever think 
thou wouldst bump — bump again 
“ Egl — Elgl — izabeth,” 1 say, chok- 
ing with emotion, “ do, do, do you — 
to — tell me — you don’t — don’t — 
don’t — lo — love that apothcary ? ” 
She shrugs her shoulder, — her 
charming shoulder. 

“And if,” I hotly continued, “if a 
gentleman — if a man of mature 
age certainly, but who has a kind 
heart and four hundred a year of his 
own — were to say to you, ‘Eliza- 
beth ! will you bid the flowers of a 
blighted life to bloom again ? — Eliz- 
abeth ! will you soothe a wounded 
heart — ? ’ ” 

“ O Mr. Batchelor ! ” she sighed, 
and then added, quickly, “ Please 
don’t take my hand ! Here ’s Pop ! ” 

And that dear child (bless him!) 
came up at the moment, saying, “ 0 
Miss Prior ! look here ! I ’ve got such 
a jolly big toadstool!” And next 
came Cissy, with a confounded but- 
terfly. ^ O Richard the Third! 
Have n’t you been maligned because 
you smothered two little nuisances in 
a Tower? What is to prove to me 
that you did not serve the little brutes 
ri^dit, and that you were n’t a most hu- 
mane man ? Darling Cissy coming up 
then, in her dear, charming way, says, 
“ You sha’ n’t take Mr. Batchelor’s 
hand, you shall take my hand ! ” And 
she tosses up her little head and 


walks with the instructress of her 
youth. 

“ Ces enfans ne comprennent guere le 
Fi'an^ais/’ says Miss Prior, speaking 
very rapidly. 

“ Aprh tonche ? ” I whisper. The 
fact is, I Avas so agitated I hardly 
knew Avhat the French for lunch was. 
And then our conversation dropped ; 
and the beating of my own heart Avait 
all the sound I heard. 

Lunch came. I could n’t eat a bit : 
I should have choked. Bessy ate 
plejity and drank a glass of beer. It 
was her dinner, to be sure. Young 
B/acksIiefp did not appear. We did 
not miss him. When Lady Baker 
began to tell her story of George IV. 
at Slane Castle I went into my own 
room. I took a book. Books? 
Pshaw! I Avent into the garden. I 
took out a cigar. But no, I Avould 
not smoke it. Perhaps she — * 
Many people don’t like smoking. 

I Avent into the garden. “ Come 
into the garden, Maud.” I sat by a 
large lilac-bush. I Avaited. Perhaps 
she Avould come. The morning-room 
AvindoAvs A\^ere AA'ide open on to the 
laAvn. Will she never come ? Ah ! 
Avhat is that tail form adA'ancing? 
gliding — gliding into the chamber 
like a beauteous ghost? Who most 
does like an angel shoAv, you may be 
, sure ’t is she. 8he comes up to the 
glass. She lays her spectacles doAVn 
on the mantel-piece. She puts a slim 
Avhite hand OAcr her auburn hair and 
looks into the mirror. Elizabeth, 
Elizabeth ! I come ! 

As I came up I saAv a horrid little 
grinning, debauched face surge over 
the hack of a great arm-chair and look 
tOAA'ard Elizabeth. It Avas Captain 
Blacksheep, of course. He laid his 
elhoAvs oA^er the chair. He looked 
keenly and Avith a diabolical smile at 
the unconscious girl ; and just as I 
reached the AvindoAv he cried out, 
“ Betsy Bellenclen, hy Jove ! ” 

Elizabeth turned round, gave a 
little cry, and — But Avhat hap- 
pened I shall tell in the ensuing chap- 
ter. 





Bessy s Refi ctions 






LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


343 


CHAPTER V. 

IN WHICH I AM STUNG BY A SER- 
PENT. 

If, when I heard Baker call out Bes- 
jy Bellenclen, and adjure Jove, he had 
ran ibrward and seized Elizabeth by 
jhc waist, or offered her other person- 
jd indignity, I too should have run 
forward on ray side and engaged him. 
Though I am a stout elderly man, 
short in stature and in wind, I know 
I ara a match for that rickety little 
Captain on his high-heeled boots. 
A match for him 1 I believe Miss Bes- 
sy would have been a match for both 
of us. Her white arm was as hard 
and polished as ivory. Had she iield 
it straight pointed against the rush of 
the dragoon, he would have ffillen 
backward before his intended prey : 
I have no doubt he would. It was 
the hen in this case Avas stronger than 
the libertine fox, and au besoin would 
have pecked the little marauding ver- 
min’s eyes out. Had, I say, Partlet 
been Aveak, and Reynard strong, I 
would have come forward : I certainly 
would. Had he been a wolf now, in- 
stead of a fox, I am certain I should 
have run in upon him, grappled Avith 
him, torn his heart and tongue out of 
his black throat, and trampled the 
laAvless brute to death. 

Well I did n’t do any such thin^. 
I was just going to run in, — and I 
didn’t. I Avas just going to rush to 
Bessy’s side to clasp her (I have no 
doubt) to my heart: to beard the 
whiskered champion who Avas before 
her, and perhaps say, “ Cheer thee — 
cheer thee, my persecuted maiden, 
my beauteous love, — my Rebecca! 
Come on. Sir Brian de Bois Guilbert, 
thou dastard Templar ! It is I, Sir 
Wilfred of Ivanhoe.” (By the way, 
though the felloAv Avas not a Templar, 
he was a Lincoln's Inn man, having 
passed twice through the Insolvent 
Court there Avith infinite discredit.) 
But I made no heroic speeches. There 
Avas no need for Rebecca to jump out of 
the AvindoAV and risk her lovely neck. 
How could she, in fact, the French 


windoAV being flush Avith the ground- 
floor 1 And I give you my honor, 
just as I Avas crying my Avar-cry, 
couching my lance, and rushing a 'la 
recousse upon Sir Baker, a sudden 
thought made me drop my (figura- 
tive) point : a sudden idea made me 
rein in my galloping (metaphorical) 
steed, and spare Baker for that time. 

Suppose I had gone in 1 But for 
that sudden precaution there might 
have been a Mrs. Batchelor. I 
might have been a bullied father of 
ten children. (Elizabeth has a fine 
high temper of her own.) What is 
four hundred and twenty a year, with 
a wife and perhaps half a dozen chil- 
dren ? Should I have been a Avhit the 
happier ? Would Elizabeth 1 Ah ! 
no. And yet I feel a certain sort of 
shame, even now, Avhen I think that 
I did n’t go in. Not that I Avas in a 
fright, as some people choose to hint. 
I SAvear I Avas not. But the reason 
Avhy I did not charge was this : — 

Nay, I did charge part of the Avay, 
and then, I own, stopped. It Avas an 
error in judgment. It Avas n’t a Avant 
of courage. Lord George Sackville 
was a braA'e man, and as cool as a 
cucumber under fire. Well, he did n’t 
charge at the battle of Minden, and 
Prince Ferdinand made the deuce and 
all of a disturbance, as avc knoAv. 
Byng Avas a brave man, — and I ask, 
Avas n’t it a confounded shame execut- 
ing him ? So Avith respect to myself. 
Here is my statement. I make it 
openly. I don’t care. I am accused 
of seeing a Avoman insulted, and not 
going to her rescue. I am not guilty, 
I say. That is, there were reasons 
Avhich caused me not to attack. Even 
putting aside the superior strengtli of 
Elizabeth herself to the enemy, I a^av 
there Avere cogent and honorable rea- 
sons Avhy I did not charge home. 

You see I happened to be behind a 
blue lilac-bush (and Avas turning a 
rhyme, — HeaA^en help us ! — in 
Avhich death Avas oply to part me and 
Elizabeth) Avhen I saAV Baker’s face 
surge over the chair-back. I rush 
foi'Avard as he cries “ By Jove ! ” 


344 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


Had Miss Prior cried out on her part, 
the strength of twenty Hcenans, I 
know, would have nerved this arm ; 
but all she did was to turn pale, and 
say, “ O mercy ! Captain Baker ! 
Do pity me ! ” 

“ What ! you remember me, Bessy 
Bcllenden, do you ? ” asks the Cap- 
tain, advancing. 

“ 0, not that name ! please, not 
that name ! ” cries Bessy. . 

“ 1 thought I knew you yesterday,” 
says Baker. “ Only, gad, you see, I 
had so much claret on board I did 
not know much what was what. 
And oh ! Bessy, I have got such a 
splitter of a headache.” 

” Oh ! please ^ — please, my name is 
Miss Prior. Pray ! pray, sir, don’t.” 

“ You ’ve got handsomer, — doosid 
deal handsomer. Know you now 1 
well, your spectacles otF. You come j 
in here — teach my nephew and 
niece, humbug my sister, make love 

to the sh . Oh ! you uncommon 

sly little toad ! ” 

“ Captain Baker ! I beg — I im- 
plore you,” says Bess, or something of 
the sort ; for the white hand assumed 
an attitude of supplication. 

“ Pooh ! don’t gammon wje ! ” says 
the rickety Captain (or words to that 
effect), and seizes those two firm 
white hands in his moist, trembling 
palms. 

Now do you understand why I 
paused ? When the dandy came 
grinning forward, with looks and 
gestures of familiar recognition ; when 
the pale Elizabeth implored him to 
spare her, — a keen arrow of jeal- 
ousy shot whizzing through my heart, 
and caused me wellnigh to fall back- 
ward as I ran forward. I bumped up 
against a bronze group in the gar- 
dens. The group represented a lion 
stung by a serpent. I was a lion 
stung by a serpent too. Even Baker 
could have knocked me down. 
Eiends and anguish ! he had known 
her before ? The Academy, the life 
she had led, the wretched old tipsy, 
ineffective guardian of a fiither, — all 
these antecedents in poor Bessy’s his- 


tory passed through my mind. And 
I had ottered my heart and troth to 
this woman ! Noav, my dear sir, I 
appeal to you. What would you 
have done ? Would you have liked 
to have such a sudden suspicion 
thrown over the being of your affec- 
tion ? “ Oh ! spare me — spare me ! ” 
I heard her say, in clear — too clear 

— pathetic tones. And then there 
came rather a shrill “ Ah ! ” and 
then the lion was up in my breast 
again ; and I give you my honor, 
just as I was going to step forward 

— to step ? — to rush forward from 

behind the urn where I had stood for 
a moment with thumping heart, 
Bessy’s “ Ah ! ” or little cry was fol- 
lowed by a u-hacic, which 1 heard as 
clear as anything I ever heard in my 
life ; — and I saw the little Captain 
spin back, topple over a chair heels 
up, and in this posture heard him be- 
gin to scream and curse in shrill 
tones 

Not for long, for as the Captain 
and the chair tumble down, a door 
springs open ; — a man rushes in, who 
pounces like a panther upon the pros- 
trate Captain, pitches into his nose 
and eyes, and chokes his bad language 
by sending a fist down his naughty 
throat. 

“ Oh ! thank you, Bedford ! — 
please leave him, Bedford ! that ’s 
enough. There, don’t hurt him any 
more ! ” says Bessy, laughing — 
laughing, upon my word. 

“ Ah ! will you ? ” says Bedford. 
“ Lie still, you little beggar, or I ’ll 
knock your head off. Look here. 
Miss Prior ! — Elizabeth — dear — 
dear Elizabeth ! I love you with all 
my heart, and soul, and strength — I 
do.” 

O Bedford ! Bedford ! ” warbles 
Elizabeth. 

“ I do ! I can’t help it. I must 
say it ! Ever since Rome, I do. Lie 
still, you drunken little beast ! It ’s 
no use. But I adore you, O Eliz- 
abeth ! Elizabeth ! ” And there was 
Dick, who was always following Miss 
P. about, and poking his head into 


i. 





f 


Be(^ford to tke Rescue 





LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


345 


keyholes to spy her, actually making 
love to her over the prostrate body of 
the Captain. 

Now what was I to do ? Was n’t 
I in a most confoundedly awkward 
situation ? A lady had been attacked 
— a lady 1 — the lady, and I had n’t 
rescued her. Her insolent enemy 
was overthrown, and I had n’t done 
it. A champion, three inches shorter 
^ than myself, had come in and dealt 
the blow. I was in such a rage of 
mortification that 1 should have liked 
to thrash the Captain and Bedford 
too. The first I know I could have 
matched ; the second was a tough 
little hero. And it was he who res- 
cued the damsel while I stood by ! 
In a strait so odious, sudden, and 
humiliating, what should I, what 
could I, what did I do ? 

Behind the lion and snake there is a 
brick wall and marble balustrade, built 
for no particular reason, but flanking 
three steps and a grassy terrace, which 
then ri.ses up on a level to the house 
windows. Beyond the balustrade is 
a shrubbery of more lilacs and so 
forth, by which you can walk round 
into another path, which also leads 
up to the house. So as I had not 
charged, — ah ! woe is me ! — as the 
battle was over, I — I just went 
round that shrubbery into the other 
path, and so entered the house, 
arriving, like Fortinbras in Hamlet, 
when everybody is dead and sprawl- 
ing, you know, and the whole busi- 
ness is done. 

And was there to be no end to my 
shame, or to Bedford’s laurels ? In 
that brief interval, while I was walk- 
ing round the by-path (just to give 
myself a pretext for entering coolly 
into the premises), this fortunate fel- 
low had absolutely engaged another 
and larger champion. This was no 
other than Bulkeley, my Lady B.’s 
first-class attendant. When the Cap- 
tain fell amidst his screams and 
curses, he called for Bulkeley : and 
that individual made his appearance, 
with a little Scotch cap perched on 
his powdered head. 

15 * 


“ Hullo ! what ’s the row year 1 ” 
says Goliah, entering. 

“ Kill that blackguard ! Hang 
him, kill him ! ” screams Captain 
Blackshcep, rising with bleeding 
nose. 

“ I say, what ’s the row year ? ” 
asks the grenadier. 

“ OtF with your cap, sir, before a 
lady ! ” calls out Bedford. 

“ Hoff with my cap ! you be bio — ” 

But he said no more, for little Bed- 
ford jumped some two feet from the 
ground and knocked the cap off, so 
that a cloud of ambrosial powder 
filled the room with violet odors. 
The immense frame of the giant shook 
at this insult : “ I will be the death 
on you, you little beggar ! ” he grunt- 
ed out, and was advancing to destroy 
Dick just as I entered in the cloud 
which his head had raised. 

“ I ’ll knock the brains as well as 
the powder out of your ngly head ! 
says Bedford, springing at the poker. 
At which juncture I entered. 

“ What — what is this disturb- 
ance 1 ” I say, advancing with an air 
of mingled surprise and resolution. 

“ You git out of the way till I 
knock his ’ead off ! ” roars Bulke- 
ley. 

“ Take up your cap, sir, and leave 
the room,” I say, still with the same 
elegant firmness. 

' “ Put down that there poker, you 
coward ! ” bellows the master on 
board wages. 

“ Miss Prior,” I say (like a digni- 
fied hypocrite, as I own I was), “ I 
hope no one has offered you a rude- 
ness ? ” And I glare round, first at 
the knight of the bleeding nose, and 
then at his squire. 

Miss Prior’s face, as she replied to 
me, Avore a look of awful scorn. 

“ Thank you, sir,” she said, turn- 
ing her head over her shoulder, and 
looking at me with her gray eyes. 
“ Thank you, Richard Bedford ! God 
bless you ! I shall ever be thankful 
to you, wherever I am.” And the 
stately figure swept out of the room. 

She had seen me beliiud that con- 


J46 


LOVEL THE WIDOWEK. 


founded statue, then, and I had not 
come to her ! O torments and racks ! 

0 scorpions, fiends, and pitchforks ! 
Tlic face of Bedford, too (flashing with 
knightly gratitude anon as she spoke 
kind words to him and passed on), 
wore a look of scorn as he turned to- 
ward me, and then stood, his nostrils 
distended, and breathing somewhat 
hard, glaring at his enemies, and still 
grasping his mace of battle. 

When Elizabeth was gone there 
was a pause of a moment, and then 
Blacksheep, taking his bleeding cam- 
bric from his nose, shrieks out, “Kill 
him, I say ! A fellow that dares to hit 
one in my condition, and when 1 ’m 
down ! Bulkeley, you great hulking 
jackass ! kill him, I say ! ” 

“ Jest let him put that there poker 
down, that ’s hall," growls Bulkeley. 

“ You he afraid, you great cowardly 
beast ! You shall go, Mr. What-d’ye- 
calTem — Mr. Bedford, — you shall 
have the sack, sir, as sure as your 
name is what it is ! I ’ll tell my 
brother-in-law everything : and as for 
that woman — " x 

“ If you say a word against her, 

1 T1 cane you wherever I sec you. 
Captain Baker ! " 1 cry out. 

“ Who spoke to you ? " says the 
Captain, falling back and scowling at 
me. 

“ Who hever told you to put your 
'foot in ? ” says the squire. 

I was in such a rage, and so eager 
to find an object on which 1 might 
wreak my fury, that I confess I plung- 
ed at this Bulkeley. I gave him two 
most violent blows on the waistcoat, 
which caused him to double up with 
such frightful contortions that Bedford 
burst out laughing; and even the 
Captain with the damaged eye and 
nose began to laugh too. Then, 
taking a lesson from Dick, as there 
was a fine shining dagger on the table, 
used for the cutting open of reviews 
and magazines, I seized and bran- 
dished this weapon, and 1 dare say 
would have sheathed it in the giant’s 
bloated corpus, had he made any 
movement toward me. But he only 


called out, “hi ’ll be the death on 
you, you cowards ! “ hi ’ll be the 
death of both on you ! ’’ And snatch- 
ing up his cap from the carpet, walked 
out of the room. 

“ Glad you did that, though,’’ says 
Baker, nodding his head. “ Think I 
’d best pack up.’’ 

And now the Devil of Rage which 
had been swelling Avithin me gave 
place to a worse devil, — the Devil of 
Jealousy, — and I turned on the Cap- 
tain, who was also just about to 
slink away : — 

“ Stop ! ’’ I cried out — I screamed 
out, I may say. 

“ Who spoke to you, I should like 
to know ? and who the dooce dares to 
speak to me in that sort of way ? ’’ 
says Clarence Baker, with a plentiful 
garnish of expletives, Avhich need not 
be here inserted. But he stopped, 
nevertheless, and turned slouching 
round. 

“ You spoke just noAv of Miss 
Prior,’’ I said. “ Have you anything 
against her ? ’’ 

“ What ’s that to 3'ou 1 ’’ he asked. 

“ I am her oldest friend. I intro- 
duced her into this family. Dare you 
sa}" a word against her ? ’’ 

“ Well, Avho the dooce has ? ’’ 

“ You knew her before ? ’’ 

“ Yes, I did, then.’’ 

“ When she went by the name of 
Bellenden ? ’’ 

“ Of course I did. And AA-hat ’s 
that to you 1 ’’ he screams out. 

“ I this day asked her to be mv 
Avife, sir ! That ’s Avhat it is to me ! ’’ 
I replied, Avith seA'ere dignity. 

Mr. Clarence began to Avhistle. 
“ Oh ! if that ’s it — of course not ! ’’ 
he says. 

The jealous demon Avrithed Avithin 
me and rent me. 

“ You mean that there is something, 
then ? ’’ I asked, glaring at the young 
reprobate. 

“No, I don’t,’’ says he, looking 
very much frightened. “ No, there is 
nothin’. Upon my sacred honor 
there isn’t that I knoAv.’’ (I Avas 
looking uncommonly fierce at this 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


347 


time, and, I must own, •would rather 
have quarrelled with somebody than 
not.) “No, there is nothin’ that I 
know Ever so many years ago, you 
see, I used to go Avith Tom Papillion, 
T urkington, and two or three fellows, 
to that theatre. Dolphin had it. 
And we used to go behind the scenes, 

— and — and I own I had a roAv with 
her. And I AA’-as in the Avrong. There 
noAv, I OAvn I Avas. And she left the 
theatre. And she behaved quite right. 
And I Avas very sorry. And I be- 
liev'e she is as good a Avoman as ever 
stepped noAV. And the fatlicr Avas a 
disreputable old man, but most hon- 
orable — I knoAv he Avas. And there 
Avas a felloAV in the Bombay service 

— a fellow by the name of Walker, 
or Walkingham — yes, Walkingham; 
and I used to meet him at the Cave 
of Harmony, you knoAv ; and he told 
me that she Avas as right as right 
could be. And he AA^as doosidly cut 
up about leaving her. And he would 
have married her, I dessay, only for 
his father, the General, Avho Avould n’t 
stand it. And he Avas ready to hang 
himself when he Avent away. He 
used to drink awfully, and then he 
used to SAvear about her ; and Ave used 
to chaff him, you knoAv. Loav, vul- 
garish sort of man he Avas, and a very 
passionate fellow. And if you ’re 
goin’ to marry her, you know — of 
course, I ask your pardon, and that ; 
and upon the honor of a gentleman I 
knoAV nothin’ against her. And I 
Avish you joy, and all that sort of 
thing ! I do noAv, really now ! ” And 
so saying, the mean, mischievous lit- 
tle monkey sneaked aAvay, and clam- 
bered up to his own perch in his OAvn 
bedroom. 

Worthy Mrs. Bonnington, with a 
couple of her young ones, made her 
appearance at this juncture. She had 
a key, Avhich gave her a free pass 
through the garden door, and brought 
her children for an afternoon’s play 
and fighting Avith their little nepliCAV 
and niece. Decidedly, Bessy did not 
bring up her young folks Avell. Was 
it that their grandmothers spoiled 


them, and undid the governess’s 
Avork] Were those young ])eople 
odious (as they often Avere) by na- 
ture, or rendered so by the neglect of 
their guardians If Bessy had loved 
her charges more, avouIcI they not 
luiA^e been better? Had she a kind, 
loving, maternal heart Ha! This 
thought — this jealous doubt — smote 
my bosom : and Avere she mine, and 
the mother of many possible little 
Batchelors, Avould she be kind to 
tlie7n? Would they be Avilful, and 
selfish, and abominable little Avretches, 
in a Avord, like these children ? Nay, 
nay! Say that Elizabeth has but a 
cold heart ; Ave cannot be all perfec- 
tion. But, per contra, you must ad- 
mit that, cold as she is, she does her 
duty. Hoav good she has been to her 
own brothers and sisters : how cheer- 
fully she has given aAvay her savings 
to them : how admirably she has be- 
ha\'cd to her mother, hiding the in- 
iquities of that disreputable old 
schemer, and covering her improprie- 
ties Avith decent filial screens and pre- 
texts ! Her mother? Ah! grands 
dieux ! You Avant to marry, Charles 
Batchelor, and you Avill 1ia\^e that 
greedy pauper for a mother-in-laAv ; 
that fluffy Blue-coat boy, those hob- 
nailed taw-players, top-spinners, tof- 
fee-eaters, those underbred girls, for 
your brothers and sisters in law ! 
They aauU be quartered upon you. 
You ai'e so absurdly Aveak and good- 
natured — you knoAV you arc — that 
you Avill never be able to resist. 
Those boys Avill groAV up : they Avill 
go out as clerks or shop-boys : get 
into debt, and expect you to pay their 
bills : Avant to be articled to attorneys 
and so forth, and call upon you for 
the premium. Their mother AA’ill 
nev'er be out of your house. She 
will ferret about in your draAvers and 
Avardrobes, filch your haberdashery, 
and cast greedy eyes on the very 
shirts and coats on your back, and 
calculate Avhen she can get them for 
her boys. Those vulgar young mis- 
creants Avill never fail to come and 
dine with you on a Sunday. They 


348 


LOYEL THE WIDOWER. 


will brinf^ their young linen-draper or ; 
articled friends. They will draw bills 
on you, or give their own to money- 
lenders, and unless you take up those 
bills they will consider you a callous, 
avaricious brute, and the heartless 
author of their ruin. The girls will 
come and practise on your wife’s 
piano, lliey won’t come to you on 
Sundays only ; they will always be 
staying in the house. They will 
always be preventing a tete-a-tete be- 
tween your wife and you. As they 
grow old they will Avant her to take 
them out to tea-parties, and to give 
such entertainments, where they will 
introduce their odious young men. 
They Avill expect you to commit 
meannesses in order to get theatre- 
tickets for them from the newspaper 
editors of your acquaintance. You 
will have to sit in the back seat : to 
pay the cab to and from the play : to 
see glances and bows of recognition 
passing between them and dubious 
bucks in the lobbies : and to lend the 
girls your Avife’s gloves, scarfs, orna- 
ments, smelling-bottles, and handker- 
chiefs, Avhich of course they Avill 
nev'er return. If Elizabeth is ailing 
from any circumstance, they Avill get 
a footing in your house, and she will 
be jealous of them. The ladies of 
your OAvn family Avill quarrel with 
them, of course ; Und A^ery likely your 
mother-in-laAV Avill tell them a piece of 
her mind. And you bring this dreary 
certainty upon you because, forsooth, 
you fall in Ioax Avitli a fine figure, a 
pair of gray eyes, and a head of au- 
burn (not to say red) hair! O 
Chai'les Batchelor ! in Avhat a galley 
hast thou seated thyself, and Avhat a 
family is crowded in thy boat ! 

All these thoughts are passing in 
my mind as good Mrs. Bonnington is 
rattling to me — I protest I don’t 
noAV about Avhat. I think I caught 
so'.nc faint sentences about the Pata- 
gonian mission, the National schools, 
and Mr. Bonnington ’s lumbago ; but 
1 can’t say for certain. I Avas busy 
Avith my own thoughts. I had asked 
the awful question, — I Avas not an- 


; SAvered. Bessy had CA*en gone aAA'ay 
in a huff about my Avant of gallantry, 
but I Avas easy on that score. As for 
Mr. Drencher, she had told me her 
sentiments regarding him; and though 
I am considerably older, yet-, thought 
I, I need not be afraid of that rival. 
But Avhen she says yes? O dear ! O 
dear! Yes means Elizabeth — cer- 
tainly, a brave young Avoman — but 
it means Mrs. Prior, and Gus, and 
Amelia Jane, and the Avhole of that 
dismal family. No Avonder, Avith 
these dark thoughts crowding my 
mind, Mrs. Bonnington found me ab- 
sent; and, as a comment upon some 
absurd reply of mine, said, “ La ! Mr. 
Batchelor, you must be crossed in 
loA’c ! ” Crossed in love ! It might 
be as Avell for some folks if they were 
crossed in Ioa'C. At my age, and 
having loved madly, as I did, that 
])arty in Dublin, a man does n’t take 
the second fit by any means so strong- 
ly. Well ! Avell ! the die Avas cast, 
and I Avas there to bide the hazard. 
“What can be the matter? I look 
pale and unwell, and had better see 
Mr. D. ? ” Thank you, my dear 
Mrs. Bonnington. I had* a violent 
— a violent toothache last night — 
yes, toothache ; and Avas kept awake, 
thank yoit. And there ’s nothing like 
having it out ? And Mr. 1). draAvs 
them beautifully, and has taken out 
six of your children’s? It’s better 
noAV ; 1 dare say it Avill be better still, 
soon. I retire to my chamber : I 
take a book, — can’t read one AV'ord 
of it. I resume my tragedy. Trage- 
dy ? Bosh ! 

I suppose Mr. Drencher thought 
his yesterday’s patient Avould be bet- 
ter for a little more advice and medi- 
cine, for he must pay a second visit to 
Shrublands on this day, just after the 
roAv Avith the Captain had taken 
place, and Avalked up to the upper re- 
gions, as his custom Avas. Very like- 
ly he found Mr. Clarence bathing his 
nose there, and prescribed for the in- 
jured organ. Certainly he knocked 
at the door of Miss Prior’s school- 
room (the fellow was aUvays finding 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


349 


a pretext for entering that apartment), 
and Master Bedford comes to me with 
a woe-hegone, livid countenance, and a 
“ Ha ! ha ! young Sawbones is up with 
her!” 

“ So my poor Dick,” I say, “ I 
heard your confession as I was my- 
self running in to rescue Miss P. 
from that villain.” 

“ My blood was hup,” groans 
Dick, — “ up, I beg your pardon. 
When I saw that young rascal lay a 
hand on her I could not help flying 
at him. I would have hit him if he 
had been my own father. And I 
could not help saying what was on 
my mind. It would come out; I 
knew it would some day. I might as 
well wish for the moon as hope to 
get her. She thinks herself superior 
to me, and perhaps she is mistaken. 
But it ’s no use ; she don’t care for 
me; she don’t care for anybody. 
Now the words are out, in course I 
must n’t stay here.” 

“ You may get another place^easily 
enough with your character, Bed- 
ford 1 ” 

But he shook his head. “ I ’m not 
disposed to black nobody else’s boots 
no more. I have another place. I 
have saved a bit of money. My poor 
old mother is gone, whom you used 
to be so kind to. Mr. B. I ’m alone 
now. Confound that Sawbones, will 
he nevL'r come away 1 I ’ll tell you 
about my plans some day, sir, and 
I know you ’ll be so good as to help 
me.” And away goes Dick, looking 
the picture of woe and despair. 

Presently, from the upper rooms. 
Sawbones descends. I happened to 
be standing in the hall, you see, talk- 
ing to Dick. Mr. Drencher scowls at 
me fiercely, and I suppose I return 
him haughty glance for glance. He 
hated me : I him : I liked him to hate 
me. 

“ How is your patient, Mr. — a — 
Drencher ? ” I ask. 

“ Trifling contusion of the nose — 
brown paper and vinegar,” says the 
Doctor. 

“ Great powers ! ditf the villain 


strike her on the nose ? ” I cry, in 
terror. 

“ Her — whom ? ” says he. 

“ Oh — ah — yes — indeed ; it’s 
nothing,” I say, smiling. The fact 
is, 1 had forgotten about Baker in my 
natural anxiety for Elizabeth. 

“ I don’t know what you mean by 
laughing, sir ! ” says the red-haired 
practitioner. “But if you mean 
chaflf, Mr. Batchelor, let me tell you I 
don’t want chaff, and I won’t have 
chaff! ” and hercAvith, exit Sawbones, 
looking black doses at me. 

Jealous of me, think I, as I sink 
down in a chair in the morning-room, 
where the combat had just taken 
place. And so thou, too, art fever- 
caught, my poor physician ! What 
a fascination this girl has ! Here ’s 
the butler ; here ’s the medical man ; 
here am I : here is the Captain has 
been smitten — smitten on the nose. 
Has the gardener been smitten too, and 
is the page gnawing his buttons off 
for jealousy, and is Mons. Bulkclcy 
equally in love with her ? I take up 
a review, and think over this, as I 
glance through its pages. 

As I am lounging and reading 
Mons. Bulkeley himself makes his ap- 
pearance, bearing in cloaks and pack- 
ages belonging to his Indy. “ Have 
the goodness to take that cap off,” I 
say, coolly. 

“ You ’ave the goodness to remem- 
ber that if hever I see you hout o’ this 
’ouse I ’ll punch your hugly ’ead off,” 
says the monstrous menial. But I 
poise my paper-cutter, and he retires 
growling. 

From despondency I pass to hope ; 
and the prospect of marriage, Avhich 
before appeared so dark to me, as- 
sumes a gayer hue. I have four hun- 
dred a year, and that house in Devon- 
shire Street, Bloomsbury Square, of 
w'hich the upper part will be quite big 
enough for us. If we have children, 
there is Queen Square for them to 
Avalk and play in. Several genteel 
families I know, who still live in the 
neighborhood, will come and see my 
Avife, and Ave shall have a comfortable, 


350 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


cosey little society, suited to our small 
means. The tradesmen in Lamb’s 
Conduit Street are excellent, and 
the music at the Foundling ahvays 
charming. I shall give up one of my 
clubs. The other is within an easy 
walk. 

No : my wife’s relations will not 
plague me. Bessy is a most sensible, 
determined woman, and as cool a 
hand as I know. She will only see 
Mrs. Prior at proper (and, I trust, 
distant) intervals. Her brothers and 
sisters Avill learn to know their places, 
and not intrude upon me or the com- 
pany which I keep. My friends, who 
are educated people and gentlemen, 
will not object to visit me because I 
live over a shop (my ground-floor and 
spacious back premises in Devonshire 
Street are let to a German toy-ware- 
house). I shall add a hundred or two, 
at least, to my income by my literary 
labor ; and Bessy, who has practised 
frugality all her life, and heen a good 
daughter and a good sister, I know 
will prove a good wife, and, please 
Heaven ! a good mother. Why, four 
Imndred a year, plus two hundred, is 
a nice little income. And my old col- 
lege friend, Wigmore, who is just on 
the Bench ■? He Avill, he must get 
me a place — say three hundred a 
year. With nine hundred a year, we 
can do quite well. 

Love is full of elations and despond- 
encies. The future, over which such 
a black cloud of doubt lowered a few 
minutes since, blushed a sweet rose- 
color now. I saw myself h.appy, be- 
loved, with a competence, and ima- 
gined myself reposing in the delightful 
garden of Bed Lion Square on some 
summer evening, and half a dozen 
little Batchelors frisking over the 
flower-bespangled grass there. 

After our little colloquy Mrs. Bon- 
nington, not finding much pleasure in 
my sulky society, had gone to Miss 
Prior’s room with her young folks, 
and, as the door of the morning-room 
opened now and again, I could hear 
the dear young ones scuttling about 
the passages where they were playing 


at horses, and fighting, and so forth. 
After a while good Mrs. B. came 
down from the school-room. “ What- 
ever has happened, Mr. Batchelor ^ ” 
she said to me, in her passage through 
the morning-room. “ Miss Prior is 
very pale and absent. You arc very 
pale and absent. Have you been 
courting her, you naughty man, and 
trying to supplant Mr. Drencher ? 
There now, you turn as red as my 
ribbon ! Ah ! Bessy is a good girl, 
and so fond of my dear children. ‘Ah, 
dear Mrs. Bonnington,’ she says to 
me — but of course you won’t tell 
Lady B. : it would make Lady B. 
perfectly furious. ‘Ah ! ’ says Miss 
P. to me, ‘I Avish, ma’am, that my 
I little charges were like their dear 
little nephcAvs and nieces — so exqui- 
sitely brought up ! ’ Pop again wished 
to beat liis uncle. I Avish — I Avisli 
Frederick would send that child to 
school ! Miss P. OAvns that he is too 
much for her. Come, children, it is 
time to go to dinner.” And, Avith 
more of this prattle, the good lady 
summons her young ones, Avho de- 
scend fi'om the school-room Avith their 
nejjhcAv and niece. 

Following ncphcAV and niece comes 
demure Miss Prior, to Avhom I fling a 
knoAving glance, Avhich says, plain as 
eyes can speak, — Do, Elizabeth, come 
and talk for a little to your faithful 
Batchelor I She gives a sidelong look 
of intelligence, leaves a parasol and a 
pair of gloves on a table, accompanies 
Mrs. Bonnington and the young ones 
into the garden, sees the clergyman’s 
Avife and children disappear through 
the garden gate, and heroAvn youthful 
charges engaged in the strawberry- 
beds; and, of course, returns to the 
morning-room for her parasol and 
gloA^es, Avhich she had forgotten. 
There is a calmness about that Avoman, 
— an easy, dauntless dexterity, Avhicli 
frightens me, — ma parole (Vhonneur. 
In that Avhite breast is there a Avhite 
marble stone in place of the ordinary 
cordial apparatus ^ Under the Avhite 
velvet glove of that cool hand are 
there bones of cold steel 1 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


351 


So Drencher has again been here, 
Elizabeth ” I say. 

She shrugs her shoulders. “ To 
see that wretched Captain Baker. 
The horrid little man will die! He 
was not actually sober just now when 
he — when I — when you saw him. 
How I wish you had come sooner — 
to prevent that horrible, tipsy, dis- 
reputable quarrel ! It makes me very, 
very thoughtlul, Mr. Batchelor. lie 
will speak to his mother — to Mr. 
Lovel. I shall have to go away. I 
know I must.” 

“ And don’t you know where you 
can find a home, Elizabeth ? Have 
the words I spoke this morning been 
so soon forgotten 1 ” 

“ Oh! Mr. Batchelor! you spoke in 
a heat. You could not think seriously 
of a poor girl like me, so friendless 
and poor, with so many family ties. 
Pop is looking this way, please. To 
a man bred like you, what can I be 1 ” 

“ You may make the rest of my life 
happy, Elizabeth ! ” I cry. “ We are 
friends of such old — old date, that 
you know what my disposition is.” 

“Oh! indeed,” says she, “ it is cer- 
tain that there never was a sweeter 
disposition or a more gentle creature.” 
(Somehow I thought she said the 
words “ gentle creature” with rather 
a sarcastic tone of voice.) “But 
consider your habits, dear sir. I 
remember how in Beak Street you 
used to be always giving, and, in 
spite of your income, always poor. 
You love ease and . elegance ; and 
having, I dare say, not too much for 
3 mnrself now, would you encumber 
yourself with — with me and the ex- 
penses of a household ? I shall al- 
ways regard you, esteem yuu, love \mu 
as the best friend I ever had, and — 
void oenir la mere dn vaurim.” 

Enter Lady Baker. “ Do I inter- 
rupt a tde-a-tde, pray ? ” she asks. 

“ My benefactor has known me 
since 1 was a child, and befriended me 
since then,” says Elizabeth, with 
simple kindness beaming in her look. 
“We were just speaking — I was 
just — ah — telling him that my un- 


cle has invited me most kindly to St. 
Boniface, Avhenever I can be spared ; 
and if you and the family go to the 
Isle of Wight this autumn, perhaps 
you will intercede with Mr. Lovel, 
and let me have a little holiday. 
Mary will take every charge of the 
children ; and 1 do so long to see my 
dear aunt and cousins ! And I was 
begging Mr. Batchelor to use his in- 
terest with jmu, and to entreat you to 
use yoar interest, to get me leave. 
That was what our talk was about.” 

The deuce it was ! I could n’t say 
No, of course ; but I protest I had no 
idea until that moment that our con- 
versation had been about aunt and 
uncle at St. Boniface. Again came 
the horrible suspicion, the dreadful 
doubt, — the chill as of a cold serpent 
crawling down my back, — which had 
made me pause, and gasp, and turn 
pale, anon when Bessy and Captain 
Clarence were holding colloquy to- 
gether. What has happened in this 
woman’s life ? Do I know all about 
her, or anything, or only just as much 
as she chooses ? O Batch — Batch ! 
I suspect jmu are no better than an 
old gaby ! 

“ And Mr. Drencher has just been 
here and seen ^mur son,” Bessy con- 
tinues, softly ; “ and he begs and en- 
treats your Ladyship to order Captain 
Baker to be more prudent. Mr. D. 
savs Captain Baker is shortening his 
life, indeed he is, by his carelessness.” 

There is Mr. Lovel coming from 
the city, and the children .are running 
to their papa! And Miss Prior 
makes her patroness a meek courtesy, 
and demurely slides away from the 
room. With a sick heart I say to 
myself, “ She has been — yes — hum- 
bugging is the word — humbugging 
Lady B. Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! can 
it be possible thou art humbugging 
me, too ? ” 

Before Lovel enters Bedford rapidly 
flits through the room. He looks as 
pale as a ghost. His face is awfully 
gloomy. 

“ Here ’s the governor come,” Dick 
whispers to me. “ It must all come 


352 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


hout now — out, I beg your pardon. 
8o she ’s caught you, has she ? I 
thought she would,” And he grins a 
ghastly grin. 

“ VV hat do you mean 1 ” 1 ask, and 
1 dare say turn rather red. 

“ I know all about it. I ’ll speak 
to you to-night, sir. Confound her ! 
confound her ! ” and he doubles his 
knuckles into his eyes and rushes out 
of the room over Buttons, entering 
with the afternoon tea. 

“ What on earth ’s the matter, and 
why are you knocking the things 
about ? ” Lovel asks at dinner of his 
butler, who, indeed, acted as one dis- 
traught. A savage gloom was de- 
picted on Bedford’s usually melan- 
choly counteuance, and the blunders 
in his service were many. With his 
brother-in-law Lovel did not exchange 
many words. Clarence was not yet 
forgiven for his escapade two days 
previous. And when Lady Baker 
cried, “ Mercy, child ! what have you 
done to yourself ? ” and the Captain 
replied, “ Knocked my face against a 
dark door — made my nose bleed,” 
Lovel did not look up or express a 
word of sympathy, “ If the fellow 
knocked his worthless head otf, I 
should not be sorry,” the widower 
murmured to me. Indeed, the tone 
of the Captain’s voice, his ton, and his 
manners in general, were especially 
odious to Mr. Lovel, who could put 
up with the tyranny of women, but 
revolted against the vulgarity and as- 
sumption of certain men. 

As yet nothing had been said about 
the morning’s quarrel. Here we 
Avere all sitting with a sword hanging 
over our heads, smiling and chatting, 
and talking cookery, politics, the 
Aveather, and Avhat not, Bessy Avas 
T)erfectly cool and dignified at tea. 
Danger or doubt did not seem to af- 
fect her. If she had been ordered for 
execution at the end of the evening 
she Avould hav'e made the tea, ])layed 
her BeethoA'en, answered questions in 
her usual voice, and glided about 
from one to another Avith her usual 
dignified calm until the hour of de- 


capitation came, Avhen she would 
have made her courtesy and gone 
out and had the amputation perform- 
ed quite quietly and neatly. 1 ad- 
mired her, I was fiightencd before 
her. The cold snake crept more than 
CA^er down my back as I meditated on 
her. I made such awful blunders at 
Avhist that even good Mrs. Bonning- 
ton lost her temper Avith her fourteen 
shillings. Miss Prior Avould haA'e 
played her hand out, and never made 
a fault, you may be sure. She retired 
at her accustomed hour. Mrs. Bon- 
nington had her glass of negus, and 
AvithdrcAV too. Lovel keeping his 
eyes sternly on the Captain, that offi- 
cer could only get a little sherry and 
seltzer, and AA’ent to bed sober. Lady 
Baker folded LoacI in her arms, a 
process to Avhich my poor friend very 
humbly submitted. Everybody Avent 
to bed, and no tales were told of the 
morning’s doings. There Avas a res- 
pite, and no execution could take 
place till to-morrow, at any rate. 
Put on thy nightcap, Damocles, and 
slumber for to-night, at least. Thy 
slumbers Avill not be cut short by the 
awful Chopper of Fate. 

Perhaps you may ask Avhat need 
had / to be alarmed ? Nothing could 
happen to me. I Avas not going to 
lose a governess’s place. Well, if I 
must tell the truth, I had not acted 
Avith entire candor in the matter of 
Bessy’s appointment. In recom- 
mending her to Loa’cI, and the late 
Mrs, L,, I had ansAvered for her pro- 
bity, and so forth, Avith all my might, 
I had described the respectability of 
her family, her father’s campaigns, 
her grandfather’s (old Dr, Sargent’s) 
celebrated sermons ; and had enlarged 
Avith the utmost eloquence upon the 
learning and high character of her 
uncle, the Master of Boniface, and 
the deserved regard he bore his niece. 
But that part of Bessy’s biography 
which related to the Academy I OAvn 
I had not touched upon. A qui bon ? 
Would every gentleman or lady like 
to have everything told about him or 
her 1 I had kept the Academy dark 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


353 


then ; awd so had brave Dick Bedford 
the batLr; and should that miscreant 
Captain reveal the secret, 1 knew 
there would be an awful commotion 
in the building. 1 should have to 
incur Lovel’s not unjust reproaches 
for suppressio veri, and the anger of 
those two viragincs, the grandmoth- 
ers of Lovel’s children. I was more 
afraid of the women than of him, 
though conscience whispered me that 
I had not acted quite rightly by my 
friend. 

When, then, the bed-candles were 
lighted, and every one said good night, 
“ Oh ! Captain Baker,” say I, gayly, 
and putting on a confoundedly hypo- 
critical grin, “ if you will come into 
my room, I will give you that book.” 

“ What book \ ” says Baker. 

“ The book we were talking of this 
morning.” 

“ Hang me if I know what you 
meaUj” says he. And luckily for me, 
Lovel, giving a shrug of disgust, and 
a good-night to me, stalked out of the 
room, bed-caudle in hand. No doubt 
he thought his wretch of a brothci*-in- 
lawdid not well remember after dinner 
what he had done or said in the morn- 
ing. 

As I now had the Blacksheep to 
myself, I said, calmly, “ You are 
quite right. There was no talk about 
a book at all. Captain Baker. But I 
wished to see you alone, and impress 
upon you my earnest wish that every- 
thing which occurred this morning — 
mind, eyery/A/ny — should be consid- 
ered as strictly private,- and should be 
confided to no person whatever , — you 
understand I — to no person.” 

“ Confound me,” Baker breaks out, 
“ if I understand what you mean by 
your books and your ‘ strictly private.’ 
I shall speak what I choose, — hang 
me!” 

“ In that case, sir,” I said, “will you 
have the goodness to send a friend of 
yours to my friend Captain Fitzboo- 
dle ? I must consider the matter as 
personal between ourselves. You in- 
sulted, and as I find now, for the sec- 
ond time, — a lady whose relations to 


j me you know. You have given neither 
' to her, nor to me, the apology to 
j which we arc both entitled. You re- 
fuse even to promise to be silent re- 
garding a painful scene which was oc- 
casioned by your own brutal and cow- 
ardly behavior; and you must abide 
by the consequences, sir! you must 
abide by the consequences ! ” And I 
glared at him over my flat candlestick. 

“ Curse me ! — and liang me ! — 
and, etc., etc., etc.,” he says, “if I 
know Avhat all this is about. What 
the doocc do you talk to me about 
books, and about silence, and apolo- 
gies, and sending Captain Fitzboodle 
to me ? 1 don’t want to see Captain 

Fitzboodle, — great fat brute ! / know 
him perfectly well.” 

“ Hush ! ” say I, “ here ’s Bed- 
ford.” Ill fact, Dick appeared at this 
juncture to close the house and put 
the lamps out. 

But Captain Clarence only spoke 
or screamed louder. “ What do I 
care about who hears me ? That fel- 
low insulted me already to-day, and 
I’d have pitched his life out of him, 
only I was down, and I’m so con- 
founded weak and nervous, and just 
out of my fever, — and — and hang 
it all ! what are you driving at, 
Mr. What-’s-your-name ? ” And the 
wretched little creature cries almost as 
he speaks. 

“ Once for all, will you agree that 
the affair about ivhich we spoke shall 
go no further ? ” I say, as stern as 
Draco. 

“ I sha’ n’t say anythin’ about it. 
I wish you’d leave me alone, you 
fellows, . and not come botherin’. I 
wish I could get a glass of brandy- 
and-water up in my bedroom. I tell 
you I can’t sleep without it,” whim- 
pers the wretch. 

“ Sorry I laid hands on you, sir,” 
says Bedford, sadly. “ It was n’t 
worth the while. Go to bed, and I ’ll 
get you something warm.” 

“Will you, though 1 I could n’t 
sleep without it. Do now — do now ! 
and I won’t say anythin’, — I won’t 
now, — on the honor of a gentleman, 
w 


354 


LOVEL THE WIDOAVER, 


I won’t. Good night, Mr. What- 
d’ye-call — ” And Bedford leads the 
helot to his chamber. 

“ I ’ve got him in bed ; and I ’ve 
given him a dose; and put some lau- 
danum in it. He ain’t been out. He 
has not had much to-day,” says Bed- 
ford, coming back to my room, with 
his face ominously pale. 

“ You have given him laudanum ? ” 
I ask. 

“ Sawbones gave him some yester- 
day, — told me to give him a little, — 
forty drops,” growls Bedford. 

Then the gloomy major-domo puts 
a hand into each waistcoat pocket, 
and looks at me. “You want to 
fight for her, do you, sir 1 Call- 
ing out, and that sort of game 1 
Bhoo ! ” — and he laughs scornfully. 

“ The little miscreant is too despi- 
cable, I own,” say 1 ; “ and it ’s ab- 
surd for a peaceable fellow like me to 
talk about powder and shot at this 
time of day. But what could I do ? ” 

“ I say it ’s she ain’t worth it,” 
says Bedford, lifting up both his 
clenched fists out of the waistcoat 
pockets. 

“ What do you mean, Dick ? ” I ask. 

“ She ’s humbugging you, — she ’s 
humbugging me, — she ’s humbug- 
ging everybody,” roars Dick. “ Look 
here, sir ! ” and out of one of the 
clenched fists he flings a paper down 
on the table. 

“What is it?” I ask. It’s her 
handwriting. I see the neat trim 
lines on the paper. 

“ It ’s not to you, nor yet to me,” 
says Bedford. 

“ Then how dare you read it, sir ? ” 
I ask, all of a tremble. 

“ It ’s to him. It ’s to Sawbones,” 
hisses out Bedford. “ Sawbones 
dropped it as he was getting into his 
gig, and I read it. / ain’t going to 
make no bones about whether it ’s 
wrote to me or not. She tells him 
how you asked her to marry you. 
(Ha !) That ’s how I came to know 
it. And do you know Avhat she calls 
you, and what he calls you, — that 
castor-hoil beast ? And do you know 


what she says of you? That you 
had n’t pluck to stand by her to-day. 
There — it ’s all down under her 
hand and seal. You may read it or 
not, if you like. And if poppy or 
mandragora will medicine you to 
sleep afterward I just recommend you 
to take it. / shall go and get a drop 
out of the Captain’s bottle, — I 
shall.” 

And he leaves me, and the fatal 
paper on the table. 

Now, suppose you had been in my 
case, — would you, or would you not, 
have read the paper ? Suppose there 
is some new's — bad news — about 
the woman you love, will you, or 
will you not, hear it? Was Othello 
a rogue because he let lago speak to 
him ? There was the paper. It lay 
there glimmering under the light, 
with all the house quiet. 

— ♦ 

CHAPTER VI. 

Cecilia’s successor. 

Monsieur et Honore Lecteub ! — 

I see, as perfectly as if you w^ere 
sitting opposite to me, the scorn depict- 
ed on your noble countenance, when 
you read my confession that I, Charles 
Batchelor, Esquire, did burglariously 
enter the premises of Edward Drench- 
er, Esquire, M. R. C. S. I. (phew ! the 
odious pestle-grinder, I never could 
bear him ! ) and break open and read 
a certain letter, his -property. I may 
have been wTong, but 1 am candid. 
I tell my misdeeds ; some fellow's hold 
their tongues. Besides, my good 
man, consider the temptation, and the 
horrid insight into the paper which 
Bedford’s report had already given, 
me. AVould you like to be told that 
the girl of your heart w'as playing at 
fast and loose wdth it, had none of her 
ow'n, or had given hers to another ? 
1 don’t w'ant to make a Mrs. Robin 
Gray of any woman, and merely be- 
cause “her mither presses her sair” 
to marry her against her will. “ If 
Miss Prior,” thought I, “ prefers this 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


355 


lint-scrapcr to me, ought I to balk 
her? He is younger and stronger, 
certainly, than myself. Some people 
may consider him handsome. (By 
the way, wliat a remarkable thing it 
is about many women, that, in affairs 
of the heart, they don’t seem to care 
or understand whether a man is a gen- 
tleman or not ! ) It may be it is my 
superior fortune and social station 
which may induce Elizabeth to wa- 
ver in her choice between me and my 
bleeding, bolusing, rooth-drawing ri- 
val. If so, and i am only taken from 
mercenary considciMtions, what a 
pretty chance of subsequent happiness 
do either of us stand ! Take the vac- 
cinator, girl, if thou preferrest him ! 
I know what it is to be crossed in love 
Already. It ’s hard, but I can bear 
it ! I ought to know, I must know, 
I will know Avhat is in that paper!” 
So saying, as I pace round and round 
the table where the letter lies flicker- 
ing white under the midnight taper, I 
Stretch out my hand, — I seize the 
paper, — I — well, I own it — there 

— yes — I took it, and I read it. 

Or, rather, I may say, I read that 
part of IT which the bleeder and blis- 
terer had flung down. It was but a 
fragment of a letter, — a fragment, — 
oh! how bitter to swallow! A lump 
of Epsotn salt could not have been 
more disgusting. It appeared (from 
Bedford’s statement) thatiEsculapius, 
on getting into his gig, had allowed 
this scrap of paper to whisk out of 
his pocket, — the rest he read, no 
doubt, under the eyes of tlie writer. 
Very likely, during the perusal, he 
had taken and squeezed the false 
hand which wrote the lines. Very 
likely the first part of the precious doc- 
ummt contained compliments to him, 

— from the horrible context I judge 
so, — compliments to that vender of 
leeches and bandages, into who^e heart 
I dare s ly I wished ten thousand lan- 
cets might be stuck, as I perused the 
False One’s wheedling address to 
him ! So ran the document. How 
well every word of it was engraven 
on my anguished heart ! If page three, | 


which I suppose was about the bit of 
the letter which I got, was. as it was, 
— what must pages one and two have 
been ? T he dreadful document began, 
then, thus : — 

“ — dear hair in the locket, which 
I shall ever wear for the sake 
of him who gave it” — (dear hair! 
indeed, — disgusting carrots ! She 
should have been ashamed to call it 
“ dear hair ”) — “ for the sake of him 
who gave it, and whose bad temper I 
shall pardon, because I think, in spite 
of his faults, he is a little fond of his 
poor Lizzie ! Ah, Edward ! how 
could you go on so the last time about 
poor Mr. B. ! Can you imagine that 
I can ever have more than a filial re- 
gard for the kind old gentleman "? ” 

( ll etait question de moi, ma parole d'hon- 
neur. 1 was the kind old gentleman !) 
“ I have known him since my child- 
hood. He was intimate in our family 
in earlier and happier days ; made our 
house his home ; and, I must say, was 
most kind to all of us children. If 
he has vanities, you naughty boy, is 
he the only one of his sex who is vain ? 
Can you fancy that such an old crea- 
ture (an old muff, as you call him, you 
wicked, satirical man !) could ever 
make an impression on my heart ? No, 
sir ! ” (Aha ! So I was an old mitff, 
was I?) “Though I don’t wish to 
make yon vain too, or that other peo- 
ple should laugh at you, as you do at 
poor dear Mr. B., I think, sir, you 
need but look in your glass to see you 
need not be afraid of such a rival as 
that. You fancy he is attentive to 
me ? If you looked only a little an- 
grily at him, he would fly back to 
London. To-day, when your horrid 
little patient did presume to offer to 
take my hand, when I boxed his 
little wicked ears and sent him spin- 
ning to the end of the room, — poor 
Mr. Batch was &o frightened that he 
did not dare to come into the room, and 
I saw him peeping behind a statue on 
the lawn, and he would not come in 
until tile servants arrived. Poor man ! 
We cannot all of us have courage 
like a ceHain Edward, who I know is 


356 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER, 


as hold as a lion. Now, sir, you must 
not i;e quarrelling with that wretched 
little Captain for being rude. 1 have 
shown him that 1 can very well take 
care of inpelf. 1 knew the odious thing 
the tirst moment I set eyes on him, 
though he had forgotten me. Years 
ago 1 met him, and I remember he 
was equally rude and tips — ” 

Here the letter was torn. Beyond 
“tips” it did not go. But that was 
enough, was n’t it ? To this woman 
I had offered a gentle and manly, 1 
may say a kind and tender heart, — I 
had offered four hundred a year in 
funded property, besides my house in 
Devonshire Street, Bloomsbury, — 
and she preferred Edward, forsooth, at 
the sign of the Gallipot : and may ten 
thousand pestles smash my brains ! 

You may fancy what a night I had 
after reading that scrap. 1 promise 
you I did not sleep much, I heard 
the hours toll as I kept vigil. I lay 
amidst shattered capitals, broken 
shafts of the tumbled palace which I 
had built in imagination — oh! how 
bright and stately ! 1 sat among 

the ruins of my own happiness, sur- 
rounded by the murdered corpses of 
innocent - visioned domestic joys. 
Tick — tock ! Moment after mo- 
ment I heard on the clock the clink- 
ing footsteps of wakeful grief. I fell 
into a doze toward morning, and 
dreamed that I was dancing with 
Glorvina, when I woke with a start, 
finding Bedford arrived with my shav- 
ing-water, and opening the shutters. 
When he saw my haggard faee he 
wagged his head. 

“ You have read it, I see, sir,” says 
he. 

“Yes, Dick,” groaned I, out of bed, 
“ I have swallowed it.” And I laugh- 
ed, I may say, a fiendish laugh. “ And 
now I have taken it, not poppy nor 
mandragora, nor all the drowsy sirups 
in his shop (hang him), will be able to 
medicine me to sleep ifbr some time to 
come ! ” 

“She has no heart, sir. I don’t 
think she cares for t’other chap 
much,” groans the gloomy butler. 


“ She can’t, after having known ms,” 
— and my companion in grief, laying 
down my hot-water jug, retreats. 

I did not cut any part of myself 
with my razor. I shaved quite calmly. 
I went to the family at breakfast. 
My inqDi'ession is I was sarcastic and 
witty. I smiled most kindly at Miss 
Prior when she came in. Nobody 
could have seen from my outward be- 
havior that anything was wrong with- 
in. 1 was an apple. Could you inspect 
the worm at my core ? No, no. Some- 
body — I think old Baker — compli- 
mented me on my good looks. I was 
a smiling lake. Could you see on 
rny placid surface, among my sheeny 
water-lilies, that a corpse was lying 
under my cool depths'? “A bit of 
deviled chicken ? ” “ No, thank you. 
By the way, Lovel, I think I must go 
to town to-day.” “ You ’ll come back 
to dinner, of course ? ” “ Well — no.” 
“ 0, stuff! You promised me to-day 
and tomorrow. Robinson, Brown, 
and Jones are coming to-morrow, and 
you must be here to meet them.” 
Thus we prattle on. I answer, I 
smile, I say, “ Yes, if you please, 
another cup,” or “Be so good as to 
hand the muffin,” or what not. But 
I am dead. I feel as if I am under- 
ground and buried. Life, and tea, 
and clatter, and muffins are going on, 
of course ; and daisies spring, and 
the sun shines on the grass while I 
am under it. Ah, dear me ! it ’s very 
cruel : it ’s very, very lonely : it ’s very 
odd ! I don’t belong to the world 
any more. I have done with it. I 
am shelved away. But my spirit re- 
turns and flitters through the world, 
which it has no longer anything to 
do with: and my ghost, as it were, 
comes and smiles at my owm tomb- 
stone. Here lies Charles Batchelor, 
the Unloved One. Oh ! alone, alone, 
alone ! Why, Fate ! didst ordain that 
I should be companionless I Tell me 
where the Wandering Jew is, that I 
may go and sit with him. Is there 
any place at a lighthouse vacant ? 
Who knows wffiere is the island of 
Juan F ernandez ? Engage me a^ ship, 


357 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


and take me there at once. Mr. R. 
Crusoe, I think. My dear Robinson, 
have the kindness to hand me over 
your goat-skin cap, breeches, and um- 
brella. Go home, and leave me here. 
Would you know who is the solita- 
riest man on earth ? That man am 
I. "Was that cutlet which I ate at 
breakfast anon, — was that lamb 
wdiich frisked on the mead last week 
(beyond yon wall where the uncon- 
scious cucumber lay basking which 
was to form his sauce), — I say, was 
that lamb made so tender that I 
might eat him? And my heart, 
then ? Poor heart ! wert thou so 
softly constituted only that women 
might stab thee ? So I am a Muff, 
am I ? And she wdll always wear a 
lock of his “dear hair,” will she? 
Ha ! ha ! The men on the omnibus 
looked askance as they saw me laugh. 
They thought it was from Hanwell, 
not Putney, I was escaping. Escape ? 
Who can escape ? I went into Lon- 
don. I went to the Clubs. Jawkins, 
of course, was there ; and my im- 
ression is that he talked as usual, 
took another omnibus, and went 
back to Putney. “I will go back 
and revisit my grave,” I thought. 
It is said that ghosts loiter about their 
former haunts a good deal when they 
are first dead; flit wistfully among 
their old friends and companions, and, 
I dare say, expect to hear a plenty of 
conversation and friendly, tearful re- 
mark about themselves. But suppose 
they return, and And nobody talking 
of them at all ? Or suppose Hamlet 
(Pere, and Royal Dane) comes back 
and finds Claudius and Gertrude very 
comfortable over a piece of cold meat, 
or what not ? Is the late gentleman’s 
present position as a ghost a very 
pleasant one ? Crow, Cocks ! Quick, 
Sun-dawn ! Open, Trap-door ! Al- 
lons: it’s best to pop underground 
again. So I am a Muff, am I? 
What a curious thing that walk up 
the hill to the house was ! What a 
different place Shrublandsw'as yester- 
day to what it is to-day ! Has the 
6un lost its light, and the flowers their 


bloom, and the joke its sparkle, and 
the dish its savor? Why, bless my 
soul ! Avhat is Lizzy herself — only au 
ordinary woman, — freckled certainly, 

— incorrigibly dull, and without a 
scintillation of humor : and you mean 
to say, Charles Batchelor, that your 
heart once beat about that woman ? 
Under the intercepted letter of that 
cold assassin my heart had fallen down 
dead, irretrievably dead. I remem- 
ber, apropos of the occasion of my 
first death, that pei-petrated by Glor- 
vina, — on my second visit to Dublin, 

— with what a strange sensation I 
walked under some trees in the Phoe- 
nix Park, beneath which it had been 
my custom to meet my False One 
Number 1. There were the trees, — 
there were the birds singing, — there 
was the bench on which we used to sit, 

— the same, but how different ! The 
trees had a different foliage, exquisite 
amaranthine; the birds sang a song 
paradisiacal ; the bench was a bank 
of roses and fresh flowers, which 
young Love twined in fragrant chap- 
lets around the statue of Glorvina! 
Roses and fresh flowers? Rheuma- 
tisms and flannel waistcoats, you sil- 
ly old man ! Foliage and Song ? O 
namby-pamby driveller ! A statue ? 

— a doll, thou twadding old dullard ! 

— a doll wdth carmine cheeks, and a 
heart stuffed with bran, — I say, on 
the night preceding that ride to and 
from Putney, I had undergone death, 

— in that omnibus I had been carried 
over to t’other side of the Stygian 
shore. I returned but as a passion- 
less ghost, remembering my life days, 
but not feeling any more. Love was 
dead, Elizabeth! Why, the Doctor 
came, and partook freely of lunch, 
and I was not angry. Yesterday I 
called him names, and hated him, and 
was jealous of him. To-day I felt no 
rivalship ; and no envy at his success ; 
and no desire to supplant him. No 

— I swear — not the slightest wish to 
make Elizabeth mine if she would. 
I might have cared for her yesterday, 

— yesterday I had a heart. Pshaw 1 
my good sir or madam. You sit by 


358 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


me at dinner. Perhaps yon are hand- 
some, and use your eyes. Ogle away 
Don’t balk yourself, pray. But if 
you fancy I care a threepenny-piece 
about you, — or for your eyes, — or for 
your bonii}' brown hair, — or for your 
sentimental remarks, sidelong warbled, 
— or for your praise to (not of)my 
face, — or for your satire behind my 
back, — ah me ! — how mistaken you 
are ! Peine perdue, ma chere dame ! 
The digestive organs are still in good 
working order, — but the heart ? 
Caret. 

I was perfectly eivil to Mr. Drench- 
er,, and, indeed, wonder to think how, 
in my irritation, I had allowed my- 
self to apply (mentally) any sort of 
disagreeable phrases to a most excel- 
lent and deserving and good-looking 
young man, who is beloved by the 
poor, and has won the just confidence 
of an extensive circle of patients. I 
made no sort of remark to Miss Prion, 
except about the weather and the 
flowers in the garden. I was bland, 
easy, rather pleasant, not too high- 
spirited, you understand. — No ; I vow 
you could not have seen a nerve 
wince, or the slightest alteration in 
my demeanor. I helped the two old 
dowagers ; I listened to their twaddle ; 
I gayly wiped up with my napkin 
three (Quarters of a glass of sherry 
which Popham flung over my trou- 
sers. I would defy you to know that 
I had gone through the ticklish op- 
eration of an excision of the heart a 
few hours previous. Heart — pooh ! 
I saw Miss Prior’s lip quiver. AVith- 
out a word between us, she knew per- 
fectly well that all was over as re- 
garded her late humble servant. She 
winced once or twice. While Drencher 
was busy with his plate, the gray eyes 
cast toward me interjectional looks of 
puzzled entreaty. She, I say, winced ; 
and I give you my word I did not 
cure a fig whether she was sorry, or 
pleased, or happy, or going to be 
hung. And I can’t give a better 
proof of my utter indifierence about 
the matter’ than the fact that I 
wrote two or three copies of verses 


descriptive of my despair. They ap- 
peared, you may perhaps remember, 
in one of the annuals of those days, 
and were generally attributed to one 
of the most sentimental of our young 
poets. I remember the reviews said 
they were “replete Avith emotion,” 
“ full of passionate and earnest feeh 
ing,” and so forth. Peeling, indeed ! 
ha ! ha ! “ Passionate outbursts of a 
grief-stricken heart ! ” — Passionate 
scrapings of a fiddlestick, my good 
friend. “ Lonely,” of course, rhymes 
with “only,” and “gushes” Avith 
“ blushes,” and “ despair ” Avith 
“ hair,” and so on. Despair is per- 
fectly compatible with a good dinner, 
I promise you. Hair is false : hearts 
are false. Grapes may be sour, but 
claret is good, my masters. Do you 
suppose I am going to cry my eyes 
out because Chloe’s are turned upon 
Strephon ? If you find any Avhim- 
pering in mine, may they never Avink 
at a bee’s Aving again ! 

When the Doctor rose presently, 
saying he Avould go and see the gar- 
dener’s child, Avho Avas ill, and casting 
longing looks at Miss Prior, I assure 
you I did not feel a tittle of jealousy, 
though Miss Bessy actually folloAved 
Mr. Drencher into the laAvn under 
the pretext of calling back Miss Cissy, 
Avho had run thither Avithout her bon- 
net. 

“ Noav, Lady Baker, Avhich was 
right 1 you or I ? ” asks bonny Mrs. 
Bonnington, Avagging her head tOAvard 
the laAvn Avhere this couple of inno- 
cents AV'ere disporting. 

“ You thought there Avas an affair 
betAveen Miss Prior and the medical 
gentleman ? ” I say, smiling. “ It 
Avas no secret, Mrs. Bonnington.” 

“ Yes, but there AAcre others Avho 
were a little smitten in that quarter, 
too,” says Lady Baker, and she in 
turn Avags her old head tOAvard me. 

“You mean me ? ” I ansAA'cr, as in- 
nocent as a ncAv-born babe. “ I am 
a burned child. Lady Baker ; I have 
been at the fire, and am already thor- 
oughly done, thank you. One of 
your charming sex jilted me some 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


359 


years ago ; and once is quite enough, 
I am much obliged to you/’ 

This I said, not because it was 
true; in fact, it was the reverse of 
truth ; but if I choose to lie aboiit my 
own affairs, pray, why not 7 And 
though a strictly truth-telling man 
generally, when I do lie I promise 
you I do it boldly and well. 

“ If, as I gather from Mrs. Bon- 
nington, Mr. Drencher and Miss 
Prior like each other, I wish my old 
friend joy. I wish Mr. Drencher joy 
with all my heart. The match seems 
to me excellent. He is a deserving, 
a clever, and a handsome young fel- 
low ; and I am sure, ladies, you can 
bear witness to her goodness, after all 
you have known of her.” 

“My dear Batchelor,” says Mrs. 
Bonnington, still smiling and wink- 
ing. “ I don’t believe one single word 
you say, — not one single word ! ” 
And she looks infinitely pleased as 
she speaks. 

“ Oh ! ” cries Lady Baker, “ my 
good Mrs. Bonnington, you are al- 
ways match-making, — don’t contra- 
dict me. You know you thought — ” 

“ Oh, please don’t,” cries Mrs. B. 

“ I will. She thought, Mr. Batch- 
elor, she actually thought that our 
son, that my Cecilia’s husband, was 
smitten by the governess. I should 
like to have seen him dare ! ” and 
her flashing eyes turn toward the late 
Mrs. Lovel’s portrait, with its faded 
simper leering over the harp. “ The 
idea that any woman could succeed 
that angel indeed ! 

“ Indeed, I don’t envy her,” I said. 

“ You don’t mean, Batchelor, that 
my Frederick would not make any 
woman happy ? ” cries the Bonning- 
ton. “He is only seven-and-thirty, 
very young for his age, and the most 
affectionate of creatures, I ’m sur- 
prised, and it ’s most cruel, and most 
unkind of you, to say that you don’t 
envy any woman that marries my 
boy ! ” 

“ My dear good Mrs. Bonnington, 
you quite misapprehend me,” I re- 
mark. I 


“ Why, when his late wife was 
alive,” goes on Mrs. B., sobbing, 
“you know with what admirable 
sweetness and gentleness he boro 
her — her — bad temper, -=-• excuse 
me. Lady Baker ! ” 

“ 0, pray, abuse my departed an- 
gel ! ” cries the Baker ; “ say that 
your son should marry and forget 
her, — say that those darlings should 
be made to forget their mother. She 
was a woman of birth, and a woman 
of breeding, and a woman of family, 
and the Bakers came in with the Con- 
queror, Mrs. Bonnington — ” 

“ I think I heard of one in the 
court of Pharaoh,” I interposed. 

“ And to say that a Baker is not 
worthy of a Lovel is preUji news in- 
deed ! Do you hear that, Clarenee ? ” 

“ Hear what, ma’am 'i ” says Clar- 
enee, who enters at this juncture. 
“ You ’re speakin’ loud enough, 
though blesht if I hear two sh-shyl- 
lables.” 

“ You wretched boy, you have been 
smoking ! ” 

“ Shmoking, — have n’t I ? ” says 
Clarence, Avith a laugh; “and I’ve 
been at the ‘ Five Bells,’ and I ’ve been 
having a game of billiards with an 
old friend of mine,” and he lurched 
toward a decanter. 

“ Ah ! don’t drink any more, my 
child ! ” cries the mother. 

“ I ’m as sober as a judge, I tell 
you. You leave so precious little in 
the bottle at dinner that I must get it 
when I can, must n’t I, Batchelor, old 
boy ? We had a row yesterday, 
had n’t we ? No, it was sugar-baker. 
I ’ni not angry, — you ’re not angry. 
Bear no malish. Here ’s your health, 
old boy ! ” 

The unhappy gentleman drank his 
bumper of sherry, and, tossing his 
hair off his head, said, “ Where ’s the 
governess — Where ’s Bessy Bellen- 
den ? Who ’s that kickin’ me under 
the table, I say ? ” 

“ Where is who ? ” asks his mother. 

“ Bessy Bellenden — the governess 
— that ’s her real name. Known her 
these ten years. Used to dansh at 


360 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


Prinsli’s Theatre. Eememher her in 
the corps dc ballet. Ushed to go be- 
liind tlie shencs. Dooshid pretty 
girl ! ” maunders out the tipsy youth ; 
and as the unconscious subject of his 
mischievous talk enters the room, 
again he erics. out, “ Come and sit by 
me, Bessy Bellenden, I say ! ’’ 

The matrons rose -with looks of hor- 
ror in their faces. “ A ballet dancer ! ” 
cries Mrs. Bonnington. “ A ballet 
dancer ! ” echoes Lady Baker. 
“ Young woman, is this true ? ” 

“The Bulbul and the Roshe — 
hay 1 ” laughs the Captain. “ Don’t 
you, remember you and Fosbery in 
blue and shpangles 1 Always all 
right, though, Bellenden was. Fos- 
- bery wash n’t: but Bellenden was. 
Give you every credit for that, Bellen- 
den. Boxsh my earsh. Bear no 
malish — no — no — malish ! Get 
some more sherry, you — whatsh 
your name — Bedford, butler — and 
I T1 pay you the money I owe you ” ; 
and he laughs his wild laugh, utterly 
unconscious of the effect he is pro- 
ducing. Bedford stands staring at 
him, as pale as death. Poor Miss 
Prior is as "white as marble. Wrath, 
'terror, and wonder are in the counte- 
nances of the dowagers. It is an 
awful scene ! 

“ Mr. Batchelor knows that it was 
to help my family I did it,” says the 
poor governess. 

“ Yes, by George ! and nobody can 
say a word against her,” bursts in 
Dick Bedford, with a sob ; “ and she 
is as honest as any woman here ! ” 

“ Pray, w'ho told you to put your 
oar in 1 ” cries the tipsy Captain. 

“ And you knew that this person 
w'as on the stage, and you introduced 
her into my son’s family'? O Mr. 
Batchelor, Mr. Batchelor, I did n’t 
think it of you ! Don t speak to me. 
Miss ! ” cried the flurried Bonning- 
ton. 

“You brought this Avoman to the 
children of my adored Cecilia '? ” calls 
out the other dowager. “Serpent, 
leave the room ! Pack your trunks, 
viper ! and quit the house this instant. 


Don’t touch her. Cissy. Come to me, 
my blessing. Go away, you horrid 
wretch ' ” 

“ She ain’t a horrid WTetch ; and 
when I Avas ill she Avas very good to 
us,” breaks in Pop, AAuth a roar of 
tears : “ and you sha’ n’t go. Miss 
Prior, — my dear, pretty Miss Prior. 
You sha’ n’t go!” and the child 
rushes up to the governess, and covers 
her neck with tears and kisses. 

“Leave her, Popham, my darling 
blessing 1 — leave that woman ! ” cries 
Lady Baker. 

“ I Avon’t, you old beast ! — and she 
sha-a-an’t go. And I wish you Avas 
dead ; and my dear, you sha’ n’t go, 
and Pa sha’ n’t let you ! ” shouts the 
boy. 

“ O Popham, if Miss Prior has been 
naughty. Miss Prior must go ! ” says 
Cecilia, tossing up her head. 

“ Spoken like my daughter’s child ! ” 
cries Lady Baker : and little Cissy, 
having flung her little stone, looks as 
if she had performed a very virtuous 
action. 

“ God bless you. Master Pop, — 
you are a trump, you are 1 ” says Mr. 
Bedford. 

“ Yes, that I am, Bedford ; and 
she sha’ n’t go, shall she 1 ” cries the 
boy. 

But Bessy stooped down sadly and 
kissed him. “ Yes, I must, dear,” she 
said. 

“ Don’t touch him ! Come aAvay, 
sir ! Come aAvay from her this mo- 
ment ! ” shrieked the tAvo mothers. 

“ I nursed him through the scarlet 
fever, Avhen his own mother wmuld 
not come near him,” says Elizabeth, 
gently. 

“ I ’m blest if she did n’t,” sobs 
Bedford, — “ and bub — bub — bless 
you. Master Pop ! ” 

“ That child is wicked enough, and 
headstrong enough, and rude enough 
already ! ” exclaims Lady Baker. “ I 
desire, young Avoman, you will not pol- 
lute him further ! ” 

“ That ’s a hard word to say to an 
honest woman, ma’am,” says Bed- 
ford. 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


361 


“Pray, Miss, are you engaged to 
the butler, too ? " hisses out the dow- 
ager. 

“ There 's very little the matter 
M’ith Maxwell’s child — only teeth. 
■\Vliat on earth has happened ? My 
dear Lizzy, — my dear Miss Prior, — 
what is it 1 ” cries the Doctor, who 
enters from the garden at this junc- 
ture. 

“ Nothing has happened, only this 
young woman has appeared in a new 
character” says Lady Baker. “ My 
son has just informed us that Miss 
Prior danced upon the stage, Mr. 

‘ Drencher ; and if you think such a 
person is a fit companion for your 
mothers and sisters, who attend a place 
of Christian worship, I believe — I 
wish you joy.” 

“ Is this — is this — true 1 ” asks 
the Doctor, with a look of bewilder- 
ment. 

“ Yes, it is true,” sighs the girl. 

“ And you never told me, Eliza- 
beth 1 ” groans the Doctor. 

“ She ’s as honest as any woman 
here,” calls out Bedford. “ She gave 
all the money to her family.” 

“ It was n’t fair not to tell me. It 
was n’t fair,” sobs the Doctor. And 
he gives her a ghastly parting look, 
and turns his back. 

“ I say, you — Hi ! What-d’-you- 
call-’em 'i Sawbones 1 ” shrieks out 
Captain Clarence. “ Come back, I 
say. She ’s all right, I say. Upon 
my honor, now, she ’s all right.” 

“ Miss P. should n’t have kept this 
from me. My mother and sisters are 
Dissenters, and very strict. I could 
n’t ask a party into my family who 
has been — who has been — I wish 
you good morning,” says the Doctor, 
and stalks away. , 

“ And now, will you please to get 
your things ready and go, too 1 ” con- 
tinues Lady Baker. “My dear Mrs, 
Bonnington, you think — ” 

“ Certainly, certainly, she must 
go ! ” cries Mrs. Bonnington. 

“ Don’t go till Lovel comes home. 
Miss. These ain’t your mistresses. 
Lady Baker don’t pay your salary. 
16 


If you go, I go too. There ! ” calls out 
Bedford, and mumbles something in 
her ear about the end of the world. 

“ You go too ; and a good rid- 
dance, you insolent brute ! ” exclaims 
the dowager. 

“ O Captain Clarence ! you have 
made a pretty morning’s work,” I 
say. 

“ I don’t know what the doose all 
the sherry, — all the shinty ’s al)out,” 
says the Captain, playing with the 
empty decanter. “ Gal ’s a very good 
gal, — pretty gal. If she choosesh 
dansh shport her family, why the 
doosh should n’t she dansh shport a 
family 1 ” 

“ That is exactly what I recom- 
mend this person to do,” says Lady 
Baker, tossing up her head. “And 
now I will thank you to leave the 
room. Do you hear 1 ” 

As poor Elizabeth obeyed this or- 
der, Bedford darted after her ; and I 
know ere she had gone five steps he 
had offered her his savings and every- 
thing he had. She might have had 
mine yesterday. But she had de- 
ceived me. She had played fast and 
loose with me. She had misled me 
about this doctor. I could trust her 
no more. My love of yesterday was 
dead, I say. That vase was broke, 
which never could be mended. She 
knew all was over between us. She 
did not once look at me as she left the 
room. 

The two dowagers — one of them, 
I think, a little alarmed at her victo- 
ry — left the house, and for once went 
away in the same barouche. The 
young maniac who had been the 
cause of the mischief staggered away, 
I know not whither. 

About four o’clock, poor little Pin- 
horn, the child’s maid, came to me, 
wellnigh choking with tears, as she 
handed me a letter. “ She ’s goin’ 
away, — and she saved both them 
children’s lives, she did, And she ’ve 
wrote to you, sir. And Bedford ’s 
a goin’. And I ’ll give warnin’, I 
will, too ! ” And the weeping hand- 
maiden retires, leaving me, perhaps 


LOVEL THE '^riDOWER. 


3G-? 


somewliat frightened, with the letter 
in iny hand. 

“ Dear Sir,” she said, — “I may 
write you a line of thanks and fare- 
well. 1 shall go to my mother. I 
shall soon tind another place. Poor 
Ih'dford, who has a generous heart, 
told me tliat he had given yon a let- 
ter of mine to Mr. D. I saw this 
morning that yon knew everything. 
I can only say now that for all yonr 
long .kindnesses and friendship to my 
I'amily I am always your sincere and 
griiteful — E. P.” 

Yes : that was all. I think she 
%cas grateful. But she had not been 
candid with me, nor wnih the poor 
surgeon. I had no anger: far from 
it : a great deal of regard and good- 
will, nay, admiration, ibr the intrepid 
girl who had played a long, hard part 
very cheerfully ami bravely. But my 
foolish little flicker of love had blazed 
up and gone out in a day ; I knew 
that she never could care for me. 
In that dismal, Avakeful night, after 
reading the letter, I had thought her 
character and story OA'er, and seen to 
Avliat a life of artifice and dissimula- 
tion necessity had com])cllcd licr. I 
did not blame her. In such circum- 
stances, Avith such a family, hoAV could 
she be frank and open ? Poor thing ! 
])oor thing ! Do Ave knoAV anybody ? 
All ! dear me, aax are most of ns very 
Ipnely in the AA'orld. Yon Avho haA'O 
any Avho loA'e yon, cling to them, and 
thank God. I Avent into the hall to- 
jvard eA’cning : her poor trunks and 
jiackages Avere there, and the little 
nursery-maid AA'ecjiing over them. 
'I’lie sight unmanned me ; and I be- 
lieve I cried myself. Poor Elizabeth ! 
And Avith these small chests you re- 
commence your life’s Ipnely vpyage ! 
I gave the girl a couple of sovereigns. 
She sobbed a God bless me ! and 
burst out erving more desperately 
than ever. Thou hast a kind heart, 
little Pinhprn ! 

“ ‘ Miss Prior — to be called for.’ 


Wliosc trunks are these? ” says Lovel, 
coming from the city. The doAvagers 
drove up at the same moment. 

“ Did n’t yon see ns from tlie omni- 
bus, Prederick ? ” cries lier Ladythip, 
coaxingly. “ Y'e folloAvcd bchintl 
you all the Avay.” 

“ We Averc in the barouche, my 
dear,” remarks Mrs. Bonnington, 
rather nervously. 

‘‘ Whose trunks are these ? — 
Avhat ’s the matter ? — and Avhat ’s 
the girl crying for ? ” asks Loa'cI. 

“ Miss Prior is a going aivay,” sobs 
Pinliorn. 

“ Miss Prior going ? Is this your 
doing, my Lady Baker ? — or yours, 
mother ? ” the master of the house 
says, sternly. 

“ She is going, my love, because 
she cannot stay in this family,” says- 
mamma. 

“ That Avoman is no fit companion 
for my angel’s children, ITederick ! ” 
cries Lady B. 

“ That person has deceived us all, 
my love ! ’• says mamma. 

“ Deceived ? — hoAv ? Deceived 
Avhom ? ” continues Mr. Lovel, more 
and more hotly. , 

“ Clarence, love ! come doAA*n, dear ! 
Tell Mr. Lovel CAerything. Come 
doAvn and tell him tins moment,” 
cries Lady Baker to her son, Avho at 
this moment appears on the corridor . 
Avhich Avas round the hall. 

“ What ’s the roAv noAv, pray ? ” - 
And Captain Clarence descends, i 
breaking his shins over poor Eliza- . 
beth’s trunks, and calling doAvn on 
them his usual maledictions. 

“ Tell jMr. Lovel Avhere you saAV 
that — that person, Clarence ! Noav, 
sir, listen to my Cecilia’s brother ! ” 

“ SaAV her — saAv her, in blue and 
spangles, in the Roffe and the Bulbid, 
at the Prince’s Theatre, — and a 
doosed niee-looking girl she Avas, j 
too ! ” says the Captain. 

“ There, sir ! ” 

“ There, Frederick ! ” cry the ■ 
matrons, in a breath. 

“ And Avhat then ? ” asks LoA-el. 

“ Mercy ! you ask. What then, 



LovePs Mothers, 



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LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


3G3 


Frederick ? Do you know what a 
theatre is? Tell Frederick what a 
theatre is, Mr. Bateiielor, and that 
iny graiidchildreu must not he 
educated hy — ” 

“ ^ly grandchildren — my Cecilia’s 
children,” shrieks the other, “ must 
not be ])oll-luted by — ” 

“ Silence ! ” I say, “ Have you a 
word against her, — have you, prav, 
Baker ? ” 

“ No. ’Gad ! I never said a word 
against her,” says the Captain. “ No, 
hang me, you know, — but — ” 

“ But suppose I knew the fact the 
whole time ? ” asks Lovel, with ratlier 
a blush on his check. “ Suppose I 
knew that she danced to give her 
family bread ? Suppose I knew that 
site tuiled and labored to support her 
})arents, and brothers, and sisters ? 
Su])}) 0 .se I know that out of her pit- 
tance she has continued to support 
them ? Suppose I know that she 
watched my own children through 
fever and danger ? For these reasons 
I must turn her out of doors, must 1? 
No, by Heaven ! — No ! — Elizabeth ! 
-- Miss Prior ! — Come down ! — 
Come here, 1 beg you ! ” 

The governess, arrayed as for de- 
parture, at this moment ap])eared on 
tlic corridor running round the hall. 
As Lovel continued to speak very 
loud and resolute, she came down 
looking deadly pale. 

Still much excited, the widower 
went up to her and took her hand. 

Dear Miss Priori” he said, — 
“dear Elizabeth! you have been the 
best friend of me and mine. You 
tended my wife in illne.ss, you took 
care of my children in fever and 
danger. You have been an admira- 
ble sister, daughter, in your own 
family, — and for this, and for these 
benciits conferred u])on us, my rela- 
tives — my mother-in-law — would 
drive you out of my doors 1 It 
shall not be! — by Heavens, it shall 
not be ! ” 

You should have seen little Bedford, 
sitting on the governess’s box, shak- 
ing his list, and crying “ Hurrah ! ” 


as his master spoke. By this time 
the loud voices and the altercation in 
the hall had brought a half-dozen of 
servants fiom their quarters into tlie 
hall, “ Go away, Ull of you ! ’' 
shouts IjOVcI ; and the domestic posse 
retires, Bedford being tne last to 
retreat, and nodding aj)])roval at his 
master as he backs out of the room. 

“ You are very good, and kind, and 
generous, sir,” says the jiale Eliza- 
beth, putting a handkerchief to her 
eyes, “ But without tlie confidence 
of these ladies I must not stay, Mr. 
Lovel. God bless vou for vour good- 
ness to me. I must, if you please, 
return to my mother.” 

The worthy gentleman looked 
fiercely round at tlie two elder women, 
and again seizing the governess’s 
hand, said, “ Elizabeth ! dear Jtliza- 
beth ! 1 implore you not to go ! If 
you love the children — ” 

“ 0 sir ! ” (A cambric veil covers 
IMiss Prior’s emotion, and the expres- 
sion of her face, on this ejaculation.) 

“ If you love the children,” gasps 
out the widower, “ stay with them. 
If you have a regard for — for their 
father” — (Tiinanthes, where is thy 
])Ockct-handkcrchicf ?) — “remain in 
this house, Avith such a title as none 
can question. Be the mistress of it,” 

“ His mistress, — and before me ! ” 
screams Lady Baker. “ Mrs, Bon- 
nington, this depravity is mon- 
strous ! ” 

“ Be my Avife, dear Elizabeth ! ” 
the AvidoAver continues. “ Continue 
to Avatcli oATr the children, Avho shall 
be motherless no more.” 

“Frederick! Frederick! haven’t 
they got us ? ” shrieks one of the old 
ladies. 

“O, my poor dear Lady Baker!” 
saA's Mrs. Bonnington. 

“ O my poor dear Mrs. Bonning- 
ton ! ” says I^ady Ihiker. 

“Frederick, listen to your mother,” 
implores Mrs. Bonnington. 

“ To your mothers ! ” sobs Lady 
Baker. 

And they both go doAAm on their 
knees, and I heard a boohoo of a guf* 


364 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


faw bcliind the grecn-baized servants’ 
door, wliere I have no doubt Mons. 
Bedford was posted. 

“ Ah ! Batchelor, dear Batchelor, 
speak to him ! ” cries good Mrs. 
l^onny. “ We are praying tliis child, 
Batchelor, — this child Avhom you 
used to know at College, and when 
lie was a good, gentle, obedient boy. 
You have influence with my poor 
Frederick. Exert it for his heart- 
broken mother’s sake ; and you shall 
have 'iny bubble-uble-essings, — you 
shall.” 

My dear, good lady,” I exclaim, — 
not liking to see the kind soul in 
grief. 

” Send for Doctor Straightwaist ! 
Order him to pause in his madness,” 
cries Baker; “or it is I, Cecilia’s 
mother, the mother of that murdered 
angel, that shall go mad.” 

“Angel ! Allons, I say. Since bis 
widowhood you have never given the 
)oor fellow any peace. You have 
)een tbrever quarrelling with him. 
You took possession of his house ; bul- 
lied his servants, spoiled his children, 
— you did. Lady Baker.” 

“ Sir,” cries her Ladyship, “ you are 
a low, presuming, vulgar man ! Clar- 
ence, beat this rude man ! ” 

“ Nay,” I say, “ there must be nc 
more quarrelling to-day. And I am 
sure Captain Baker will not molest 
me. Miss Prior, I am delighted that 
my old friend should have found a 
woman of good sense, good conduct, 
goo<l temper, — a woman who has had 
many trials, and borne them with 
very great patience, to take charge of 
him, and make him happy^ I con- 
gratulate you both. Miss Prior has 
borne poverty so well that I am cer- 
tain she will bear good fortune, — for 
it is good fortune to become' the wife 
of such a loyal, honest, kindly gentle- 
man as Frederick Lovel.” 

After such a speech as that I think 
I may say, liheravi animam. Not one 
word of complaint, you see, not a hint 
about “Eklward,” not a single sar- 
casm, though I might have launched 
some terrific shots out of my quiver. 


and have made Lovel and his bride- 
elect writhe before me. But what is 
the need of spoiling sport ? Shall I 
growl out of my sulky manger because 
my comrade gets the meat ? Eat it, 
happy dog ! and be thankful. 'Would 
not that bone have choked me if I had 
tried it ? Besides, I am accustomed 
to disappointment. Other fellows get 
the prizes which I try for. I am 
used to run second in the dreary race 
of love. Second 1 Pshaw ! Third. 
F ou rth . Qne scais-je ? T here was the 
Bombay Captain in Bess’s early days. 
There was Edward. Here is Fred- 
erick. Go to, Charles Batchelor; 
repine not at fortune., but be content 
to be Batchelor still. My ststcr has 
children. I will be an uncle, a par- 
ent to them. Isn’t Edward of the 
scarlet whiskers distanced ? Has not 
poor Dick Bedford lost the race, — 
poor Dick ! who never had a charicc, 
and is the best of us all? Besides, 
what fun it is to see Lady Baker de- 
posed : think of Mrs. Prior coming in 
and reigning over her! The purpic- 
faced old fury of a Baker, never will 
she bully, and rage, and tramjile 
more. She must pack up her traps, 
and be off. 1 know she must. 1 can 
congratulate Lovel sincerely, and 
that ’s the fact. 

And here, at this very moment, and 
as if to add to the comicality of the 
scene, -who should appear but mother- 
in-laiv No. 2, Mrs. Prior, with her 
blue-coat boy and two or three of her 
children, who had been invited, or 
had invited themselves, to drink tea 
with Lovel’s young ones, as their 
custom was wdicncver they could pro- 
cure an invitation. Master Prior 
had a fine “ copy ” under his arm, 
Avhicb he came to show' to his patron 
Loa'cI. His mamma, entirely igno- 
rant of what had happened, came 
fawning in wdth her old poke-boniict, 
her old pocket, that vast depository 
of all sorts of stories, her old umbrel- 
la, and her usual dreary smirk. She 
made her obeisance to the matrons, — 
she led up her blue-coat boy to Mr. 
Lovel, in whose office she hoped to 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 


365 


find a clerk’s place for her lad, on 
whose very coat and waistcoat she 
had designs while they were yet on 
his back: and she straightway be- 
gan business witli the dowagers, — 

“ My Lady, I hope your Ladyship 
is quite well ? ” (a courtesy.) Dear, 
kind Mrs. Bonnington ! 1 came to 

pay my duty to you, mum. This is 
Louisa, my Lady, the great girl for 
whom your Ladyship so kindly prom- 
ised the gown. And this is my lit- 
tle girl, Mrs. Bonnington, mum, 
please ; and this is my big Blue. Go 
and speak to dear, kind Mr. Lovel, 
Gus, our dear good friend and protec- 
tor — the son and son-in-law of these 
dear ladies. Look, sir, he has brought 
his copy to show you : audit ’s credit- 
able to a boy of his age, is n’t it, Mr. 
Batchelor? You can say, who know 
so well what writing is, and my kind 
services to you, sir — and — Eliza- 
beth, Lizzy, my dear ! where ’s your 
spectacles? You — you — ” 

Here she stopped, and looking 
alarmed at the group, at the boxes, at 
the blushing Lovel, at the pale coun- 
tenance of the governess, “ Gracious 
goodness ! ” she said, “ what has 
happened ? Tell me, Lizzy, what is 
it?” 

“ Is this collusion, pray ? ” says 
ruffled Mrs. Bonnington. 

“ Collusion, dear Mrs. Bonning- 
ton ? ” 

“ Or insolence ? ” bawls out my 
Lady Baker. 

“ Insolence, your Ladyship ? What 

— what is it? What are these boxes 

— Lizzy’s boxes ? Ah ! ” the mother 
broke out with a scream, “you ’ve 
not sent the poor girl away ? Oh ! 
my poor child — my poor children ! ” 

“ The Prince’s Theatre has come 
out, Mrs. Prior,” here said I. 

The mother clasps her meagre 
hands. “ It was n’t the darling’s 
fault. It was to help her poor father 
in poverty. It was I who forced her 
to it. 0 ladies ! ladies ! — don’t take 
the bread out of the mouth of these 
poor orphans ! ” — and genuine tears 
rained down her yellow cheeks. I 


“ Enough of this,” says Mr. Lovel, 
haughtily. “ Mrs. Prior, your daugh- 
ter is not going away. Elizabeth has 
promised to stay with me, and never 
to leave me — as governess no longer, 
but as — ” and here he takes Miss 
Prior’s hand. 

“ His wife ! Is this — is this true, 
Lizzy ? ” gasped the mother. 

“ Yes, mamma,” meekly said Miss 
Elizabeth Prior. 

At this the old woman flung down 
her umbrella, and uttering a fine 
scream, folds Elizabeth in her arms, 
and then runs up to Lovel : “ My 
son ! my son ! ” says she ( Level's 
face was not bad, I promise you, at 
this salutation and salute). “ Come 
here, children ! — come, Augustus, 
Eanny, Louisa, kiss your dear broth- 
er, cliildren ! And where are yours, 
Lizzy ? Where are Pop and Cissy ? 
Go and look for your little nephew 
and niece, deai's : Pop and Cissy in 
the school-room, or in the garden, 
dears. They Avill be your nephew 
and niece now. Go and fetch them, 
I say.” 

As the young Priors filed off, Mrs. 
Prior turned to the two other ma- 
trons, and spoke to them with much 
dignity ; “ Most hot weather, your 
Ladyship, I ’m sure ! Mr. Bonning- 
ton must find it very hot for preach- 
ing, Mrs. Bonnington ! Lor’ ! there ’s 
that little wretch beating my Johnny 
on the stairs. Have done. Pop, sir ! 
How ever shall we make those children 
agree, Elizabeth ? ” 

Quick, come to me, some skilful 
delineator of the British dowager, and 
draw me the countenances of Lady 
Baker and Mrs. Bonnington ! 

“ I call this a jolly game, don’t you, 
Batchelor, old boy ? ” remarks the 
Captain to me. “ Lady Baker, my 
dear, I guess your Ladyship’s nose is 
out of joint.” 

“ O Cecilia — Cecilia ! don’t you 
shudder in your grave ? ” cries Lady 
B. “ Call my people, Clarence, — call 
Bulkeley, — call my maid! Let me 
go, I say, from this house of horror ! ” 
and the old lady dashed into the 


LOVEL THE WIDOWEK. 


’3GG 


dnnving-roora, where she uttered, I 
know not what incolierent shrieks 
and ap])eals betbre that calm, glay.ed, 
sim])erin;^ portrait of the departed 
Cecilia. 

Now this is a truth, for which I 
call Lovel, his lady, Mrs. Bonnington, 
and Captain Clarence Baker as wit- 
nesses. AYcll, then, while Lady B. 
Avas adjuring the portrait, it is a fact 
that a string of Cecilia’s harp — which 
has always been standing in the cor- 
ner of the room under its shroud of 
(’ordovan leather — a string, I say, 
of Cecilia’s harji cracked, and Avent 
off Avith a loud hong, Avhich struck 
terror into all beholders. Lady Ba- 
ker’s agitaiion at the incident Avas 
awful ; 1 do not like to describe it, — 
not having any wish to say anything 
tragic in tins narrative, — tliongh that 
I can Avritc tragedy, ])lays of mine (of 
Avhich envious managers never could 
be got to see the merit), I think, Avill 
])rovc when they appear in my post- 
■ humous Avorks. 

Baker has always aA'errcd that at 
the moment Avhen the harp-string 
broke, her heart broke too. But as 
she lived for many ycai s, and may be 
alive noAv for Avhat I knoAv ; and as 
she borroAved money repeatedly from 
Lovel, — he must be acquitted of the 
charge Avhieh she constantly brings 
against him of hastening her OAvn 
deatii, and murdering his first Avife 
Cecilia. “ The harp that once in 
Tara’s Halls” used to make such a 
piteous feeble thrumming has been 
carted off I know not Avhithcr; and 
Cecilia’s portrait, though it has been 
removed from the post of honor 
(where, yon conceive, under picscnt 
circAimstances it Avould hardly be 
apropos), occupies a very rcpxitablc 
position in the ])ink room up stairs, 
Avhich that poor young Clarence in- 
habited during my visit to Shrub- 
lands. 

All the house has been altered. 
There ’s a fine organ in the hall, on 
Avbieh Elizabeth ])erforms sacred mu- 
sic very finely. As for my old room, 
it woiiid trouble yon to smoke there 


under the present gOA^ernment. It is 
a library now, Avith many fine and 
authentic pictures of the Lovel fam- 
ily hanging up in it, the Ihiglish 
branch of the house Avith the M’olf 
crest, and Gare a la hnve for the mot- 
to, and a grand jjosthumous portrait 
of a I’ortugnese oflicer (Gandish), 
Elizabeth’s late father. 

As for dear old Mrs. Bonnington, 
she, yon may be sure, would be easily 
reconciled to any live mortal Avho was 
kind to her, and any plan Avhich 
should make her son happy ; and 
IHizabelh has quite Avon her over. 
Mrs. Prior, on the deposition of the 
other doAvagers, no doubt ex'pcctcd to 
reign at Shrublands, but in this ob- 
ject I am not very sorry to say Avas 
disappointed. Indeed, I Avas not a 
little amused, upon the very first day 
of her intended reign, — that event- 
ful one of Avhich Ave have been de- 
scribing the incidents, — to see how 
calmly and gracefully Bessy pulled 
the throne from under her, on Avhicli 
the old lady was clambering. 

IMrs. P. kncAv the house Acry avcII, 
and everything Avhieh it contained ; 
and when Lady Baker drove off Avith 
her son and her suite of domestics. 
Prior dashed through the vacant 
apartments, gleaning Avhat had been 
left in the flurry of departure, — a 
scarlet feather out of the dowager’s 
room, a shirt-stud and a bottle of 
hair-oil, the Captain’s pro[)crty. “And 
now they are gone, and as you can’t 
be alone Avith him, my dear, I must 
be Avith you,” says she, coming doAvn 
to her daughter. 

“Of course, mamma, I must he 
Avith yon,” says obedient Eliza- 
beth. 

“ And there is the pink room, and 
the blue room, and the yelloAv room 
for the boys, — and the chintz bou- 
doir for me, — I can put them all 
away, O, so comfortably ! ” 

“ I can come and share Louisa’s 
room, mamma,” says Bessy. “ It 
Avill not be ])roj)er for me to stay here 
at all, — until afterward, you knoAV. 
Or 1 can go to my uncle at St. Boni- 


LOVEL THE WIDOWER 


3G7 


face, don’t j’oii tliink that will Ix) 
best, ell, Frederick I ” 

“ Whatever you wish, my dear 
Lizzy ! ” says Lovel. 

“ And I dare say there will be some 
little alterations made in the house. 
You talked, you know, of painting, 
]Mr. Lovel ; and the children can go to 
their grandmamma Honniiigton. And 
on our return, when tlie alterations 
are made, avo shall always be delighted 
to see yon, Mr. Hatchelor, — our kind- 
est old friend. Shall Ave not, a — 
Frederick f ” 

“ Ahvays, ahways,” said Frederick, 

“ Come, children, come to your 
teas,” calls out Mrs. P., in a resolute 
voice. 

“ Dear Pop, I ’in not going UAvay,— 
that is, only for a few dtiys, dear,” 
says Bes.sy, kissing the boy ; “ anti 
you Avill love me, Avon’t you I ” 

“All right,” says the boy. But 
Cissy said, Avhen the same appeal was 
made to her : “ I shall love my dctir 
mamma!” and makes her ucav mother- 
in-hiAV a A^ery polite courtesy .- 

“ I think you had better put off 
those men you expect to dinner to- 
morrow, Fred ? ” I say to Lovel. 

“ I tltink I had, Batch,'’ says the 
gentleman. 

“ Or you can dine with them at the 
club, you know ? ” remarks Elizabeth.- 

“ Yes, Bessy.” 

“ And Avhen the children ha\c had 
their tea I Avill go Avith mamma, My 
boxes are ready, you knoAv,” says arch 
Bessy. 

“ And you Avill stay and dine Avith 
Mr. Lovel, Avon’t you, Mr. Batche- 
lor? ” asks the lady. 

.It Avas the dreariest dinner I CA^er 
had in my life. No undertaker could 
be more gloomy than Bedford, as he 
served us. We tried to talk poli- 
tics and literature. We drank too 
much, purposely. Nothing Avoulddo. 


“ Hang me, if I can stand this, Loa*- 
el,” I said, as avc sat mum over our 
third bottle. “ I Avill go back ami 
sleep at my chambers. 1 Avas net a 
little soft upon her myself, that ’s the 
i truth. Here’s her hcaltli, and haj)pi- 
1 ness to both of you, Avith all my heart.” 
And Ave drained a great bumper 
aj)iece, and 1 left him. He Avas very 
hap})y 1 should go. 

Bedford stood at the gate as the 
little pony-carriage came for me in the 
dusk. “ God bless you, sir ! ” says 
he. “I can’t stand it ; I shall go 
too.” And he rubbed his hands over 
liis eyes. 

He married Mary Pinhorn, and they 
have emigrated to iMelbourne ; whence 
he sent me, three years ago, an allec- 
tionate letter and a smart gold pin 
from the diggings. 

A month afterAvard a cab might 
haA^c been seen driving from the Tem- 
ple to Hanover Square ; and a month 
and a day after that driA’-e an adver- 
A'crtisemcnt might have been read in 
the Post and Times; “Married, on 
Thursday, 10 th, at St. George’s, 
IlanoA’er Square, by the Reverend the 
Master of St. Boniface College, Ox- 
bridge, uncle of the bride, Frederick 
Lovel, Esquire, of Shrul)lands, Roc- 
hamj)ton, to Elizabeth, eldest daugh- 
'ter of tlie late Captain Montagu 
Prior, K. S. F.” 

We may hcarof Loa'el IMaeuied 
some other day ; but here is an end 
of Loa'EL the Wi do aver. Valde 
et pJemdite, you good people, Avho have 
Avitnessed the little comedy. Doavu 
A vith the curtain ; cover up the boxes ; 
pop out the gaslights. Ho ! cab. Take 
us home, and let us have some tea 
and go to bed. Good night, my little 
players. W e have been merry togeth- 
er, and Ave part Avith soft hearts and 
someAvhat rueful countenances, don’t 
Ave^ 


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